


Inkwell

by Smontheye



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Based on Fan Art, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Glade Politics, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insomnia, M/M, Minor Spoilers, Nightmares, Oblivious Newt, Pre-Thomas Era, Rape/Non-con Elements Occur Only in Dreams, Stubborn Minho, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smontheye/pseuds/Smontheye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho felt no surprise that living in the Glade was getting to him. </p><p>Being trapped like lab rats inflicted scars—physical and invisible—on all the boys. But it was a pain that was supposed to unite them. Their shared fears and grief formed a delicately balanced arch of comradeship and cooperation where just one cracked brick could send the entire structure toppling.</p><p>Like hell was he gonna be that one.</p><p>(In which Minho has a painful, horrible recurring dream, and he, Newt, and the Glade are never the same again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is fic was inspired by a fantastic piece of fan art that I have linked below (I can’t figure out who the artist is, but if anyone knows, please let me know so I can credit them with the idea!). It’s on the darker side, so heed the warnings. 
> 
> I promise to do my best with getting chapters out as fast as possible! Feedback, as always, is a great motivator for updating. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> http://40.media.tumblr.com/f2ac806adf0334433da464adf0ba9fbc/tumblr_nee92unIHf1sptzv5o1_1280.png

Sweat trickled like blood down Minho’s chest, which rose and relaxed irregularly with his breathing. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth felt on the verge of cracking. His right hand was fisted, fingers digging into his palm with enough force for nails to break skin. His other hand, grip just as painfully intense, was squeezing something soft yet firm.

“Stop this,” a soft voice pleaded from his left. Minho’s restless mind clung to the gentle tones like a lifeline. “It won’t help you.”

Minho wanted it to stop; he wanted the searing pain that seemed to be coming from the entire planes of his back and chest to disappear forever, but the words couldn’t escape his mouth. All his body let him do was grunt out, “Keep going.”

When his shoulders twitched involuntarily against the searing pain, a cool hand smoothed over his burning, bare chest before returning to work.

“Minho, please, don’t bloody do this to yourself,” Newt tried again, and this time Minho felt anger bubble up his throat like bile. He tightened his grip on Newt’s knee to the point of bruising. The other boy winced and made a feeble attempt to pull his leg away, but Minho dug his fingers into the fabric, skin, and flesh stretched thinly over delicate bone. Newt stayed in place and watched him, eyes wide and worried but not scared.

“I said, keep going.” Minho commanded, and he flinched inwardly at the acid in his own voice. He had never heard himself so full of pain and desperation. Newt watched him, his brown eyes dark and unreadable like spots of ink. Minho wanted to let the other boy go, but he couldn’t move or relax his crushing grip. It felt like the motor nerves of his limbs were disconnected from his brain. Like someone else’s malicious mind was controlling him. 

Even more terrifying, a shameful part of him was glad that Newt couldn’t leave him. And that part was no one’s brain but his.

The buzzing of the metal tool in Newt’s hand stopped, and Minho let his shoulder, which had been tensed to endure pain, relax. 

“I’m gonna move your shirt.” Newt warned before pushing the unbuttoned cloth away to uncover more of Minho’s back. Now, the shirt hung from his shoulder like a broken wing. The motion revealed a maze of black, zagging lines welded into his skin, a horrific, partially-done blueprint Minho felt way too familiar with.

 _What will it look like in the end?_ He wondered.

The blond boy sighed, and Minho felt a cool forehead touch his clammy shoulder. The gesture of tenderness should have made him feel safe and comforted. Instead, he felt his skin crawl.

“Hurry up, shank,” Minho urged, wanting Newt to stop touching him that soft, gentle way.

Newt hesitantly picked up the machine again, those slender, ink-stained fingers ivory against the dark metal. The buzzing restarted, and the pain restarted. Following a design seared permanently across Minho’s mind, the tattoo grew across his back like a virus.

Newt continued to beg Minho to stop, and Minho couldn’t let go of Newt.

Then, Minho felt a change of intent click in his head, and he knew the dream had reached its nightly gruesome turning point.

_Please, wake up now…_

But dreams, by nature, are not obedient.

With the same disconnect he felt when applying that horrible, bruising grip to Newt’s knee, Minho pulled his shirt off the rest of the way, ignoring the pain caused by the dragging fabric and stretching skin on his back.

He grabbed Newt’s wrists and pushed him down.

Newt watched him with calm, accepting eyes as Minho roughly forced their lips together, feeling the poisonous heat in his gut rise.

* * *

“Rise and shine, slinthead. You’re late.” Alby’s voice burst into Minho’s consciousness like an interloper. He jackknifed awake, flipping his hammock in a single, rough movement.

“Gah!” He hit the ground with a _thump_ , and a cloud of dust from his impact with the ground invaded his lungs. Minho curled up briefly into an embarrassing involuntary fetal positon as a series of coughs wracked his frame.

When his teary vision and sore lungs cleared, he saw Alby looking down at him with raised eyebrows. “You okay?”

“I get a shuckin’ sleeping bag from now on.” Minho grunted before sitting up and rubbing his soon-to-be-bruised elbows, which had instinctively extended to stop him from breaking more valuable parts of his body. Like his face.

Minho squinted against the light of the sun still low in the sky. Now that he was done losing a fight with the ground, morning sights and sounds flooded his senses: Frypan serving breakfast, boys getting dressed, small talk in the line to the bathroom.

 _It’s early and loud,_ his mind nagged.

Early and loud was something he knew Alby would approve of. Routine and order was the manifesto of his and Nick’s regime, where no boy could get too distracted or too depressed by the reality of their lives.

_There are some things you can’t escape from…_

Minho’s heart still pounded from the nightmare, his skin still crawled with the uncomfortable prick of ink, and his nerves still tinged with the phantom warmth of lust.

The sound of Alby’s footsteps fading away pulled Minho out of his mind.

“Don’t forget about the Gathering,” Alby called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, thanks, Admiral.”

With a groan, Minho got to his feet. For a few moments, he sat there and rubbed his eyes hard, trying to rid himself of the grogginess that hung over him like a fog. By now, he was smart enough to know that any amount of rubbing wouldn’t get the image of Newt’s scared, plaintive face out of his head.

Minho glanced at his watch.

_I’m-fucking-late o’clock..._

Without bothering with privacy, he tore off the ratty shirt and sweatpants he slept in and grabbed his usual blue button-up.

Boots half laced, he took off towards the Homestead. On the way, Minho glanced longingly at the breakfast table, where Newt and Ben chatted cheerfully over scrambled eggs and misshapen pancakes. His gaze lingered on Newt’s golden head, which looked like it was lit on fire in the sunlight.

 _Maybe if you start sleeping like a normal shank, you’ll have time to write poetry about it_ , he thought sarcastically.

He wrestled ungracefully with his Runner’s harness as he barged into the Homestead.

“Shuck!” Minho barely stopped himself from mowing over three Keepers and Nick in his haste to enter the Gathering room. “My bad,” he apologized hastily.

He imagined Alby’s eye twitching from a few seats away. Nick shot him an amused look before stomping his foot on the ground like a gavel.

“Now that we’re all here, I declare this Gathering begun.” Nick waited for Minho to sit heavily in his seat before continuing. “On today’s menu, we need to decide a fair and efficient way to dispense supplies…”

Minho suspected this Gathering was the most boring one yet. Zart, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting next to him, had to administer a painful jab to his ribs three in separate instances before the topic of discussion gathered friction on his consciousness.

“Not fair! The Runners always get the biggest slice of the pie!”

“More like they get all the cake while the rest of us are left with stale bread…”

 _What’s with all these food metaphors?_ Minho wondered briefly, feeling sorry for his breakfast-less stomach before realizing—

“That’s because we’re the most important, shank!” Minho replied indignantly. “Without us, the rest of you would be shuck-faced ants living in a bubble with no clue what’s out there.”

There was a beat of loaded silence at Minho’s outburst before every Keeper began talking at once.

“Yeah right, I’ll believe that when you make some progress—”

“What kind of shucked up logic is that? Runners aren’t better than the rest of us—”

“Jeez, does your mouth have a filter?”

“Enough!” Nick’s voice boomed, filling the room with its tenor just as quickly as it filled it with responding silence. His sharp gaze pinned Minho. “Is that your official recommendation? Runners get priority when there’s limited meat?”

Tension ran thick through the room.

 _So_ that’s _what we were discussing_ , Minho thought sheepishly, thanking his lucky stars Nick that liked him and knew he had a habit of zoning out.

“Yeah,” Minho answered, remembering how fatigued the Runners always looked at the end of the day. They, even levelheaded Newt, ate like wolves each night, devouring food like oxygen. “We need the energy.”  
  
“That’s not fair. Meat is _always_ limited. Every other shank works all day too,” Gally, the Keeper of the Builders, announced. “Other jobs are just as important even if they’re not as…glamorous.” He spat out the last word disdainfully.

Minho, who often suspected Gally only disagreed with him for the sake of it, all but stood up, voice and stance militant. “Why don’t you try running for ten klunkin’ hours straight every day and let the rest of us know how much you love your veggies?”

Gally raised a challenging eyebrow. “Make me a Runner, then.”

 _No way in hell_ , Minho glared. He didn’t have the opportunity to voice his objection.

“If you want to file a job complaint, Minho,” Alby interjected, “take that up with Nick later. And Gally, we’ve gone over this already.”

“Stop telling me what the Runners need,” Minho responded, voice full of acid as his gaze swept across the circle of the Council. “That’s my job. I’m the Keeper.”

“Then act like one,” Alby answered calmly. “You can start by paying more attention during Gatherings.”

Minho felt anger build in his throat like bile, bitter and uninvited. It cast off some of the grogginess that hadn’t stopped haunting his mind since the nightmare started messing up his sleep.

Before he could regurgitate some of that bile in a snappy comeback, Nick held up a hand. “The Doors are about to open. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Minho left the Gathering with no appetite and a sour taste in his mouth. He approached the shaded area the Runners met every morning with the beginnings of a headache.

“Alright, shanks,” Minho said, pausing to let out an ill-tempered yawn. “Get out there and find the exit before I take the stick outta the Admiral’s ass and accidentally beat him with it. Hear that? Alby’s ability to sit and shit depends on you guys. Don’t fail him.”

The speech earned a few chuckles all around and a groan from Newt.

“Really bloody inspiring, Minho.”

“Whatever. Now, break!”

Dust floated into the air as the Runners jogged off to their respective Doors to wait for their opening. Only Newt stayed behind, a friendly, teasing glint in his light brown eyes.

“I was goin’ to ask how the Gathering went, but it’s written all over your face,” Newt said, his lips curving into an amused smile that somehow lightened the weight on Minho’s skull.

“I signed up to be Keeper of the Runners ’cause I’m good at _running_ , not negotiating with a buncha selfish slintheads.” Minho kneaded his temples, hoping to get rid of the headache before he had to enter the Maze. It was a fruitless task.

_Need sleep…_

“But you know what’s best for us,” Newt soothed, reaching forward to stroke a hand over Minho’s shoulder. He immediately felt better and almost melted into the touch before something cold crawled up his spine, closing on the back of his neck like a manacle.

The cold steel of memory tightened his throat painfully. Discomfort crawled over his skin in relentless waves, Newt’s touch at the epicenter. He tensed, and Newt widened his eyes in concern. It was an expression he wore uncomfortably frequently around Minho these days.

As per protocol, Minho tried to erase it.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were tryin’ to weasel your way into a new pair of Runnie-undies.”

“Guilty as charged,” Newt held his hands up in a comical gesture of surrender, though his gaze studied Minho like he was trying to read his mind. Minho chuckled a raspy laugh, hiding his uneasiness.

_Stay outta the hot seat…_

“I think you’d be better at the negotiating part. Those shanks actually like you.”

“Seriously, Minho?” Newt arched a golden eyebrow incredulously. “If you let some light through that thick skull once in a while, you’d notice that you’re the freakin’ hero of the Glade.”

“You usually think my ego doesn’t need feeding,” Minho replied with a smirk, and it was enough.

Enough to make Newt laugh, a carefree, husky sound that was close enough to drown out the sound of the Doors sliding open. It lifted his spirits as much as it tightened the sharp wires strangling his heart.

Minho still felt small and powerless as the walls parted like concrete tectonic plates and revealed the inky, shaded unknown, dangerous and untouchable as lava.

* * *

“Stop, please,” Newt pleaded, and a cool, soft touch to his neck anchored Minho where he would rather it burn. “It’s hurting you.” The tattoo of the Maze had expanded by now across his clavicles and headed towards his chest.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Minho ordered on cue, and their nightly exchange of begging and commanding continued like a scripted play. The cruel dance was as unrelenting as the now-familiar needle that moved across his skin, leaving a trail of black ink and black pain in its wake.

Like always, Newt hesitated before obeying. The moment of uncertainty was just long enough to make Minho believe the other boy didn’t wish him harm. Almost enough to trick him into believing that it really was Newt, not some horrible wolf in sheep’s clothing planted in his head to torture him.

Unfortunately, his body was more easily tricked.

Lust, an unwelcome pathogen, invaded his veins as he forcibly pushed Newt down and instigated the nightmare’s sick, inevitable finale.

It was Minho’s turn to mark Newt.

“Please, no,” Newt whimpered as Minho, moved by an unseen force, leaned down to suck on the skin of his smooth, pale neck.

Minho tightened his hands around Newt’s wildly flexing wrists and pressed his hips between Newt’s thighs.  

“Stop,” Newt gasped, and the sound tore Minho apart. He wanted nothing more than to jump away.

_But you can’t, can you?_

He didn’t.

* * *

 _You’re not Newt_ , Minho thought, sitting up in his sleeping bag. He clung onto that thought as he watched the red of the rising sun peek out over the East Wall like blood washing away the ink of night. The sound of his heart pounding still rang into his ears and warmth still pooled in his groin. The ghost of pain still crawled in his skin.

_Newt wouldn’t let me do something this sick._

That begged a question Minho wanted to run in the opposite direction from, possibly while screaming.

_Who the heck is directing my dreams?_

There was no one in Minho’s head except himself. For every sick, monstrous thing that happened here, Minho was the only suspect.

_And the only witness…_

Witness to what? A crime he had no way to—

“Stop,” Minho groaned quietly, wondering whether this was his subconscious punishing him for pushing his limits while he was awake, for taking on too much pressure. Technically, the entire Glade was counting on him to find an escape through the inscrutable, ever-changing Maze. Plus, he lived in a large field surrounded by flesh-eating Grievers that came out at night.

Yeah, that sounded like something that could do enough psychological damage to screw up his dreams.

_Only it isn’t…_

He knew it was unnatural, but Minho never felt the weight of all those expectations and all that reality the same way he knew Alby and Newt did.

It wasn’t a mercy in the least. He couldn’t understand Newt the way Alby did. The way he wanted to. The blond boy was more precious to him than breathing, and it ruined Minho that he couldn’t look into Newt’s eyes and read their shadows as easily as he could memorize maps and think on his feet.

It made him feel immature. Like a Greenie: confused, small, and searching for someone to look up to.

_“I’m the Keeper.”_

_“Then act like one.”_

Minho groaned and tucked his head between his knees.

_“I was goin’ to ask how the Gathering went, but it’s written all over your face.”_

Newt’s voice rang in his mind, and he was relieved at how different it sounded from the Not-Newt whose begging was fresh in his ears. Would he ever be able to read Newt as well as Newt could read him?

 _Maybe if you stopped following your dick_ , he chided himself. His mind’s vision promptly filled with pale, muscled thighs and strong, veined arms.

His mood darkened immediately. He wasn’t into that. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t the type of person who—

_Gets off on rape?_

Minho would sooner throw himself in front of a Griever than hurt Newt. Yet in his sleep…

“I’m sick,” Minho concluded out loud.

“Better tell Alby then.”

Minho whipped his head around to glare at the intruder.  It was a testament to his Runner training he didn’t jump six feet into the air.

“Gally.” He acknowledged, tilting his head.

“You don’t look like you’re coughing out your lungs or burning up, though.” Gally made a show of giving Minho an once-over.  He slid into his sleeping bag a few feet from Minho’s.

“Why are you up?”

“What are you, the sleep police?” Gally sneered. “I was takin’ a leak. What about you?”

 _Stupid._ His startled, sleep-deprived mind should have seen that coming. Minho raked his brain for an answer that wouldn’t sound suspicious prefaced with “I’m sick.” There probably wasn’t one.

“You composing an essay or something, shank?” Gally asked impatiently after a moment. The Keeper of the Builders lay down and turned away with a large yawn. “Whatever. I’m squeezing another hour of sleep in. Keep your slinthead problems to yourself.”

 _Gladly_ , Minho thought, swallowing the urge to snap out a comeback that would get Gally and his suspicious glares permanently stuck on his ass.

Glancing at the Gladers sleeping peacefully around him, Minho took a moment to wallow in self-pity. He was accumulating sleep debt like a sadist with a conscience.

_What kind of crappy metaphor is that?_

An accurate one, Minho decided, if his dreams were to be believed.

* * *

“Shit,” Minho muttered, sucking his thumb into his mouth to leech the blood away from the paper cut before it got on the maps.

It was probably going to do the opposite of get rid of his subconscious’ map tattoo obsession, but poring over the Maze mystery was a hell of a lot better than staying in his sleeping bag or pacing the Deadheads, stuck with nothing but his thoughts. Plus, Alby couldn’t get his panties in a twist if Minho was doing his job.

He had tried enough already to know that neither his fear nor his guilt nor his nightmare was going to let him fall back asleep. The unpleasant little chat with Gally hadn’t helped.

It was torture to simultaneously feel so restless and tired.

Minho watched the black ink lines of half-finished maps blur together through bloodshot eyes, half expecting the answer to jump out at him.

“You look bloody terrible,” Newt’s voice broke into the stillness, and Minho jumped in surprise before scowling. When had he gotten so easy to sneak up to?

“If you’re trying to get off my naughty list, creeping in on me to insult my good looks isn’t the way.”

“You da boss, Minho,” Newt answered with a sweet grin and a roll of his eyes. Then, he frowned, dragging his brown gaze across Minho’s face with the Mother Hen expression Newt usually reserved for Greenies. “You look like you’re gonna pass out. What’s wrong?”

Minho tensed at the concern, wishing it was something corporeal so he could shove it away. “Nothing important. Just some bad dreams.”

“Oh,” Newt replied, looking sympathetic. He took a seat on the table next to where Minho was working, his knee touching Minho’s arm.  “Wanna talk about it?”

 _Hell no_ , Minho thought. Newt would find out the contents of his dreams over Minho’s dead body.  “No thanks, Mom.”

Newt laughed and sent another sincere smile Minho’s way. Then, the sincerity melted into something that burned darker and hotter. “I can think of a few ways to help you sleep,” he breathed.  Clever, long fingers stroked up Minho’s arm, left lingering touches on his neck, and came to a halt against his cheek. The pad of Newt’s calloused thumb rested against his lips. “But none of them are gonna get me off your naughty list.”

The air thickened between them, and Minho flicked his tongue out, taking in the salty taste and rough texture of Newt’s finger. Above him, Newt’s eyes darkened, lids sliding half-mast. The blond boy shifted closer until he was on the verge of sitting on the maps Minho had been studying.

_Maps of the Maze…_

A chill crept up Minho’s spine, rapidly replacing the heat. He leaned away from Newt.

“You’re gonna leave creases in the shape of your ass on these, shank,” he tapped on the maps.

“Kinda had other plans for my ass,” Newt said, sweeping his gaze over Minho’s body in a way that threatened to rekindle the fire. The wicked, velvet tone of his voice fed fuel.

Minho almost reached up to grab ahold of Newt’s narrow face, almost pulled him down so their lips could come together.

But his nightmares hung over him like an angry phantom, pulling the feeling out of his blood. Minho broke eye contact. Cut the wire. “Sorry, Newt.”

“Another ‘no,’ huh?” Newt smiled ruefully, mirroring Minho by swaying away. There was a hint of impatience in his voice, one that conveyed what Newt was too kind to voice: _You know we both want it._

Newt hopped off the Map table and headed towards the door.  

“Frypan’s ’bout to serve breakfast. Better finish mopin’ over those maps soon, shuck-face. I think I smell bacon!” Newt called back cheerfully, sounding like he hadn’t just made a failed pass at Minho.

As he gathered the large, square, ink-drawn mazes into a neat, chronological pile, Minho struggled against the storm of guilt and wondered where his appetite went.


	2. Chapter 2

“Seriously?” Minho muttered as he jogged between completely identical, vine-covered walls. His head was throbbing as usual from lack of sleep, and his eyes burned with exhaustion, but those pains were quickly becoming small annoyances compared to how screwed he currently was.

_If I die, Alby’s gonna kill me._

A lame but apt paradox that described his relationship with Alby perfectly. If Minho left him with a leaderless gang of Runners too smart and reckless for their own good, the second-in-command would lose his shit. And not in a funny way.

That was if Newt didn’t tear his head off first. Minho decided that there were worse consequences for routinely giving blue balls to the justly impatient blond.

Not leaving enough bread crumbs was the most rookie mistake in the book, but here Minho was, searching for a chunk of ivy he’d hacked off the wall nearly an hour ago.

And, since apparently he had a death wish, Minho had managed to combine the most rookie mistake with the most stupid one. Even the greenest trainees knew to never lose focus in the Maze. Yet, once Minho got used to the fear of getting lost, slipping into a brooding reverie felt easier than turning up a car radio.

_Stop and think._

With a jolt, he halted to catch his breath. Running around aimlessly was wasting time.

He tilted his gaze to the sky for inspiration and clocked in the angle of the shadow. Automatically, he concluded that the sun, unseen beyond the impossibly high Maze walls, was to his left and the Door therefore had to be in that direction.

To the west. That was the way he needed to go. Too bad in the Maze cardinal directions meant nothing without a map.

_Map…_

Minho tried to remember what the day’s Maze was supposed to look like. All that came was a big, fat, unhelpful blank.

Not just a blank. Apparently, his brain wouldn’t forgive even the smallest amount of extra use.

The pain came like a hammer. His mind spun and floundered and limped like a wounded animal, bleeding exhaustion and confusion.

_Shit…_

Black spots covered his vision. Minho staggered towards the vine-covered wall and braced a forearm against the rough foliage. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. His disobedient muscles reminded him of his nightmares…

_Man, I’m really panicking..._

As if on cue, his lungs decided that they wanted in on the fun. His chest suddenly burned with breathlessness. Minho felt the scrape of ivy against his back as he collapsed onto the ground, ass first.

_Damn it…breathe, breathe, breathe!_

He lost track of time as he waited for his senses to clear and his breathing to even. By the time the roaring in his ears faded to a tolerable ringing, the shadows around him had stretched.

Minho brought his aching arm up to look at his wrist. An hour and a half ’til closing. There was still time, but no hope.

His gaze skimmed the walls. Minho idly wondered whether he should take the time to carve a sappy good-bye letter for Newt into the concrete.

_Lame…_

Nonetheless, Minho’s hand wandered towards the knife strapped to his Runner’s harness.

Before he could reach it, his fingers touched something plastic and curved. A whistle.

For the hundredth time that day, Minho cursed his stupidity.  No promise there was another Runner in the vicinity, but a distress signal was his last option. He held the whistle to his lips and blew as hard as he could.

The high pitched trill of the whistle shattered the silence. One, two, three times.

Minho held his breath listening for an answering blast.

Seconds later, it came. Minho whistled back once, and thus began a desperate, life-or-death game of Marco Polo.

After a few precious minutes of whistle-exchanging, a tall form bounded around the corner, blond hair glinting in the dimming light.

“Newt?” Minho rasped almost inaudibly, mouth dry from exerting his lungs. When the boy approached, Minho couldn’t have felt more relieved to be wrong.

“Minho!” Ben shouted, voice full of surprise. “You okay?” Minho resisted the urge to kiss the other boy, deciding that Ben had earned the right many times over to not be permanently scarred.

“Bad day.” Minho husked back. He took the proffered hand and staggered to his feet.

“No injuries?”

Other than the huge, gaping dent in his ego? “I’m good,” Minho answered, taking a tentative step forward. He waited for his legs to give out. They didn’t, to his surprise.

Ben watched Minho curiously, gaze colored with skeptical concern. “Is everything all right, then?”

“Yeah. Quit the Newt act, shank. I got lost, and you found me.” Minho summarized dismissively. “Thanks for that.” He hoped his eyes communicated something along the lines of “Drop it, or I’ll drop-kick _you_.” As tough as he acted, Minho hated pulling rank like this. He was the Keeper, but he was also a Runner. Alby-style leadership wasn’t his thing.

“Okay,” Ben answered, calm and acceptant. The Runner hefted his pack and turned towards the corner he came from. “The Door’s this way.”

As he jogged behind him, Minho’s chest suddenly filled with gratitude for Ben’s compliance. One of the most senior Runners, Ben knew when to push Minho and when to back off. The pressure of being a Keeper weighed heavily on Minho’s shoulders, but it was a burden he was more than willing to take.

He needed to be someone they could count on. Who deserved their loyalty.  An unfailing crutch.

 _“You know what’s best for us.”_ Newt’s words supplied.

Minho took a breath before swallowing the dryness in his throat.

“Hey, shank. Do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell them I got lost.”

Ben laughed, probably writing the request off as an ego thing. “Sure.”

Vine-covered walls blurred past Minho’s vision. They ran in silence for a few minutes longer before Ben spoke again.

“Hey, Minho?”

“Shoot.”

“A few hours ago, in my section, I found something.” He sounded hesitant to burden the Keeper with the information.

“What?” Minho panted, only half paying attention. His focus was on his heart rate, which felt like it was working double time now that the protective shock of his little freak-out had faded.

“I was gonna wait ’til the Map Room to tell you about it, but now’s as good a time as any. It’s something we’ve never seen before. We don’t have time to go to it today, but—”

“Stop the pronoun game and spit it out already, shuck-face,” Minho interrupted, his patience hanging by a wire. With a pulse of guilt, he wondered how bad he must’ve looked for Ben to be this avoidant.

“I found a cliff,” Ben said. “I found the edge of the Maze.”

* * *

_Tiredness, irritability, loss of focus, forgetfulness…what am I missing?_

More like what _wasn’t_ he missing? Minho listed the symptoms, trying to impress a semblance of order in the chaos of his mind. He felt incredulous that he didn’t connect the dots sooner.

Nightmare-induced insomnia. He was no doctor, but this sure as hell sounded and felt like a textbook case to him. Not that assigning it medicalese helped.

Every time he felt the net of unconsciousness take him, his body reflexively rejected it. If he swallowed the nausea down, the sleep that greeted him was worse than staying awake.

Even closing his eyes for more than a few seconds brought the images back. Bleeding ink, stinging pain burrowed under his skin, lightning strikes of sick pleasure he wasn’t supposed to feel—

This couldn’t go on. The Maze was dangerous enough without chronic head problems.

_Something’s got to give._

A cold, gut-wrenching feeling reminded him that he was currently on the battle’s losing side. He felt helpless and useless.

Minho flinched when a familiar voice, coming from his left, distracted him from the gathering panic. His sight spun with black spots when he jerked his head up to confront the company.

“Earth to Minho,” Newt called, waving a hand in front of his face. “You gonna just sit there all night? I’d call ya a zombie, but that would be an insult to zombies. You look like you haven’t slept in years.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. You and Admiral Uptight should get dinner over it.” Minho automatically reciprocated Newt’s snark before wincing at what he accidentally suggested. The last thing he needed was Alby’s nose in his business.

Thankfully, Newt chose to chase another thread. “Speaking of dinner, where were you?”

 _Avoiding you_ , Minho didn’t say. He had kept away from the Runners’ table to escape the questions Newt seemed ready to drill him with now.

Minho still wasn’t ready to for Newt to see him looking like shit warmed up. Until now, no Runner had confronted him about his absence from the Map Room and the dinner table that evening.

Newt took his lack of response as an invitation to sit next to him. For a moment, they both watched from afar as the rest of the Glade sank into sleep. Minho’s body tensed, preparing for the barrage of inquiries and accusations.

They didn’t come. Instead, Minho felt a touch to the nape of his neck, gentle and reassuring. Newt’s other hand came up to frame his jaw before stroking along his cheekbone. He could sense the other boy ducking to try to obtain eye contact, but he looked resolutely away.

The touch was comforting in ways Minho didn’t deserve to think about. Finally, Newt’s fingers curved around Minho’s chin and nudged their gazes together. Newt’s wide, brown eyes were heartbreakingly worried.

“Please, Minho. Go to sleep.”

Pity was an armor-piercing blow. “Easier said than done,” he huffed, masking the swell of emotion. At least his nightmare-induced allergy to Newt’s touch had subsided. More likely, he didn’t have the energy or willpower to feel self-disgust.

“You don’t have to be strong with me,” Newt replied beseechingly. “It’s not just any nightmare, is it? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Minho grunted noncommittally, refusing to allow his tired face betray the turmoil those words caused.

_It’s not a matter of being strong._

Minho had lost so much in his short lifetime—his memories, his unknown family, his freedom. Was it too much to want to never lose Newt?

“Did something happen today in the Maze?” Newt demanded, refusing to lose his searching expression. “Does it have to do with Ben’s news?”

For a moment, Minho considered telling him.

_For what? What do I expect him to do, kiss it better?_

“Stop,” he said, steeling his expression. “You sound like klunkin’ Alby. It’s nothing.”

The hopeful look on Newt’s face cracked, and Minho closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the other boy’s hurt ones.

* * *

 _Open your eyes_ , Minho commanded himself uselessly. _Wake up._

The nightmare, inevitable as death, continued to loom.

This time, the pain of the buzzing needle felt different. Instead of tracing the usual web of straight lines and right angles, Not-Newt rendered something more organic. It broke up the order. Didn’t match the pattern of _run, turn, run_ that Minho hadn’t realized he’d found comfort in.

A cliff. A yawning, gaping amputation of ground that the Runners had no chance of exploring and mapping.

Minho’s chest, alight with pain, heaved under Not-Newt’s steady grip.

“Let it go,” the other boy instructed, pleading as always. “Let me go.”

“Not a chance,” Minho grunted out against his will.

The stinging, supposedly only skin-deep, felt etched into his bones.  Not-Newt continued work on the cliff’s jagged line. His fingers brushed over Minho’s nerves, soft as a feather.

As always, there was no mercy when the needle lifted and the pain lessened.

“Come here,” Minho said, voice scratching his throat like swallowed gravel.

He insinuated himself between the other boy’s thighs and gripped his biceps. The angle and movement of pushing the blond boy down was achingly, sickening familiar.

Before he could tear Not-Newt’s clothes off, the indeterminate dark world around them started to shake.

The earthquake motion jolted them apart. Before Minho could react, the shadows covering the cracked ground liquefied into black ink, which rose from ankle-deep to his waist in seconds with no signs of stopping. Soon, the rising tide forced Minho to tread the murky liquid. A sour gasoline smell filled his nose and lungs.

“Minho, help!” Newt’s— _no, no, it’s not Newt’s_ —desperate voice called. A gurgling noise and several lung-wrenching coughs followed, punctuated by the sound of frantic splashing.

“Newt!” Minho tried to swim towards the voice, but his muscles felt as if they had turned to molasses. The ground, still shaking, caused ink waves to rise like mountains around him.

He was drowning in darkness. Minho’s body involuntarily thrashed, his panic accented by the shaking, stormy seas around him. The flood was too much. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t run—

“LET ME GO!” Minho bellowed. His body shook with the force of his voice and trembled with desperation.

_Please, please, please, let me go. I’m god-damned done with this._

But clearly _it_ wasn’t done with _him_. The inky darkness ate up Minho’s senses. He might as well have had his eyes closed. There was nothing to see, nothing tangible other than the quaking motion of the black liquid deluge filling the subconscious-created world he couldn’t control or predict.

A realm without meaning.

“Wake up!” Not-Newt’s—it sounded so, so much like Newt’s—voice screamed forth, seeming to come from every direction. Minho’s body jolted and pulled with the waves of sound. “WAKE UP!”

When his eyes snapped open, the earthquake didn’t stop.

“Wha…” Minho mumbled. Suddenly, he could feel the source of the shaking: hands gripped tightly on his shoulders.

“You’re awake,” Newt’s— _it’s really Newt’s_ —face blurred into his vision. “Minho, I—” The boy above him didn’t get to finish his sentence before Minho grabbed him lightning fast and pinned him to the grassy ground next to Minho’s sleeping bag.

He snarled like a cornered predator, but the sound was cut off.

The world toppled rapidly when Newt thrust his weight up and flipped them over.

Newt held Minho down, one hand on his throat and the other on his shoulder. He bowed his head an inch away from Minho’s.  Golden hair glinted in the dim moonlight.

“Minho!” Newt whispered fiercely into his ear. “It’s just a nightmare! I’m here. You’re safe, it’s okay.”

_We’re never safe…_

Minho’s hands grasped Newt’s wrists, clinging to him like a lifeline as they waited together for his heartbeat to slow and his fear to subside.

“I’m awake,” he echoed the other boy’s earlier assurance, more for his benefit than Newt’s.

“Who’s Captain Obvious now?” Newt replied. The wry quirk of his lip didn’t hide the cautiousness dripping from his expression. “It’s a miracle no one else is, though.” He didn’t move from his perch on Minho’s stomach.

Minho glanced around at this reminder. The Glade, though shadowed by night, looked incredibly bright to him. A barely-audible chorus of steady breathing and snoring floated towards them. After the Gally incident, Minho had dragged his sleeping bag away from the rest of the Gladers. The spot was conveniently far enough for whispered conversation, though Minho had only ever anticipated talking to himself.

“Talk to me, Minho. Say something.”

_Which doesn’t explain why Newt’s here giving me the violent Sleeping Beauty treatment…_

“You couldn’t just leave after the kiss of life didn’t work?” Minho groaned. He shifted his sore shoulders, wondering if his nightmare’s plot twist had anything to do with Newt shaking his brains out.

“Well, you got your shucking revenge.” Newt flexed his wrists, drawing attention to the bruising grip of Minho’s long fingers. “Let me go already.”

 _“Let me go.”_ The familiar words echoed in his head, sounding off sirens in his head that were still hot from overuse. Minho tightened his fingers so hard he could feel the bones of Newt’s wrist grind against each other.

“Hey, watch it.” Newt responded, more surprised than angry. “Okay, no clue why, but that was the wrong thing to say.”

_Damn it…what the hell’s wrong with me?_

“You called my name like I was in trouble,” the boy above him continued. “I’ve gotta say, the dreams I’ve had about you are bloody different from the ones you’re having about me.”

Newt raised his eyebrows flirtatiously, trying for levity, but the words couldn’t have struck harder. A nerve of painful, sick irony fired off.

_Not as different as you think._

Minho forcibly swallowed the rising bile of dream imagery that made him feel hot and sick at the same time.

The disgust must have shown on his face because Newt’s expression became hurt. “Sorry, wrong thing to say again.” With a hard tug, Newt pulled free of Minho’s grip. He made to clamber off of Minho. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

“No, Newt,” Minho propped himself on his elbows, his mind racing for a way to keep Newt with him. “Stay,” he ordered. He added “please” when it felt too much like one of the commands his mouth issued in his nightmares without his mind’s permission.

Newt raised an eyebrow but stopped moving. “No offense, shuck-face, but you haven’t exactly been the most gracious host these days.”

Minho relished the sting of the words. Nothing he didn’t deserve.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he replied with more feeling than he intended. Newt deserved far better from Minho.

Newt’s expression became soft. “It’s okay, Minho.” When Minho eyed him skeptically, he added, “You’ve got enough on your chest without me sittin’ on it.”

“No joke,” Minho huffed, suddenly hyperaware of their proximity. Newt straddled his stomach, sitting dangerously close to his crotch. “Lay off the bacon, shank.”

The other boy’s lips twisted up in shallow amusement, and he got off of Minho. While the burden on his chest disappeared, the weight inside remained. 

“So, has all this got anything to do with that super-secret dream you’ve been having?” Newt asked lightly. 

“How do you know it’s the same one?” Minho husked, spooked by the accuracy of the casual observation.

“You always get real restless right before you wake up,” Newt replied with a tone that implied it was common knowledge. “It builds up, like you’re being tortured and it keeps getting worse. It’s…hard to see you like this.”

Minho sighed at the worry painted plainly on Newt’s face. “I’ll be okay. I always pull through.” He shot the other boy a weak version of his usual haughty grin.

_Empty reassurances. Now who sounds like Alby?_

Minho grimaced. He was being unfair. Alby talked a lot, but he never lied.

_Good leaders don’t sugarcoat. What does that make me?_

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” Newt murmured, reaching up to grasp Minho’s shoulder comfortingly. He stroked past his collarbone until his palm rested against the side of Minho’s neck, fingers softly splaying over his jawline. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

Minho’s eyes widened upon realizing how close Newt was. The other boy’s breath fluttered like a phantom touch over his face. Newt leaned steadily but carefully closer, like he was approaching an untamed animal in uncharted territory.

Heat exploded in Minho when their lips touched. Despite its slow beginning, the kiss rapidly gained fervor. Newt’s slick tongue traced and mapped Minho’s lips and teeth before nudging against his tongue and receding: encouragement to reciprocate that Minho didn’t need.

The other boy’s lips parted easy against the press of his tongue. The inside of Newt’s mouth was warm and soft. Minho detected the faded taste of toothpaste, which thinly masked the flavor of something more nuanced, headier, and hotter than anything he ever experienced.

The kiss sparked energy in Minho so strong he was sure it could cast off any inky darkness his nightmares could throw at him.

He wanted it to never end. To bathe in Newt’s light forever, away from the maps and mysteries and shadows.

“You’re not getting new Runnie-undies,” Minho said automatically when they finally pulled apart. Newt laughed, eyes glittering with joy.

“I’d rather get into _your_ Runnie-undies.”

Minho grimaced. “And how many poor shanks have you won over with _that_ line?”

“Just you, hopefully.” Newt licked his lips with a smirk, looking like he had just scored the lottery.

“No, Newt, we…I can’t.” A familiar tinge of painful guilt resurfaced, tugging at his chest. There was no way Minho could be with Newt like this while he was still having dreams like… _that._

“What’s that load of klunk s’posed to mean?”

“Just…let me get through this. I’ll shuckin’ figure it out. I want to be someone you deserve. Not a zombie.” He gently closed his fingers around Newt’s wrists and tugged them off his shoulders. His thumbs stroked across the backs of Newt’s hands.  “Nightmares can’t kill,” he added, but the words felt chillingly like a jinx.

“Bloody hell, more heroic klunk.” Newt rubbed his eyes tiredly. “One step forward, two steps back, huh?”

“No.” Minho responded, suddenly filled with determination. He wouldn’t let the stupid dream get the best of him. “I won’t back down.”

Newt gazed him with incredulous confusion, but he seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of Minho. “Then I’ll be waiting,” he muttered, just loud enough for Minho to hear.

Newt made the trek to his own sleeping bag and stretched out like a cat, lithe and lazy. Minho couldn’t help feeling jealous as Newt entered the bliss of slumber.

Unknown and unseen, Gally had watched the pair through narrowed eyes. 

* * *

“Catch,” Ben called, and a canteen flew in Minho’s direction. He caught it reflexively, feeling water slosh inside.

“Wow, thanks. If I run into the Wicked Witch of the West in the Maze, I’m covered.”

“It’s not water.” Ben replied, expression amused without a hint of offense. “It’s an energy drink I’ve been working on with Frypan. Thought you might need it to stay alert.”

“Oh,” Minho answered, taken aback. “Thanks,” he repeated, this time sincerely. The usual warm gratefulness for his Runners bloomed in his chest.

 _“You’re not alone.”_ Newt’s concerned voice flitted into his mind.

“Don’t sweat it,” Ben answered, already turning away to get ready for the opening of the Doors.

 _“I’m here for you.”_ Newt’s voice shadowed Ben’s. His throat felt dry.

Minho shook his head as if the motion could expel his lingering thoughts of the night before.  He had more urgent matters to focus on.

_Like the cliff._

“See you at the West Door,” Minho called. When no response came, he raised his gaze to see Ben was already out of earshot.

Feeling mildly confused at the Runner’s quick leave, he went back to tightening his shoelaces. He squinted through the burning headache that he had woken up with, wondering if he should pay the Medjacks a visit before he joined Ben.

_Can’t risk the questions…_

The next voices he heard made Minho wish he’d taken a page out of Ben’s book and run for the hills.

Alby and Nick approached, apparently arguing. Their heated tones quieted before Minho could make out what it was about. They closed in on Minho.

_Shit on a fucking stick._

“What’s up, Boss-men?” Minho nervously raised a hand in a half-assed wave. It was thin act of pretending he didn’t know exactly what they’d hunted him down for.

“Minho,” Nick said in his commanding, no-bullshit Leader voice. “By order of this morning’s Gathering—”

“Which you decided to play truant for, slinthead,” Alby interrupted uncharacteristically. He wore his trademark controlled-but-pissed expression that verifiably sent Greenies packing. Nick shot a reproachful glare at the second-in-command.

Minho almost checked the sky for flying pigs. _That_ phenomenon was significantly more believable than the disagreement between Alby and Nick he was currently witnessing.

“We decided, in light of your recent behavior and condition,” Nick continued, tone unreadable, “to suspend you from Runner duties indefinitely. You are banned from leaving the Glade, effective immediately.”

Minho froze. His mind cursed a blue streak.

If his headache was ever going to fade, it wasn’t happening anytime soon. His gut plummeted at the same time his heart seemed to shoot to his throat.

Of all the thoughts that bumped chaotically in his head, one rang with the most coherent certainty.

_Ben’s ass is grass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far! Let me know what you think! I'm always trying to become a better writer, and feedback is great motivation for updating. :)


	3. Chapter 3

“What the shucking _hell_?”

Minho took an angry swig of the traitorous bastard’s energy drink, his gut clenching with the certainty that he was going to need it. The sugary taste drowned and numbed his taste buds.

“You heard me. It’s already decided by the Council. Non-negotiable.” Nick answered calmly. His steel expression betrayed only the merest hint of apology.

Alby, on the other hand, felt no such sympathy.

“What were you thinking, you selfish slinthead?” The second-in-command demanded, arms folded across his chest and eyes blazing. “Keepin’ it to yourself—I know you have a klunk heroic image to maintain, but you need to think of the consequences. You’re not the only one livin’ here.” Alby strode forth until he was face-to-face with Minho. He exuded his special brand of aggressiveness, one tempered by the cold of self-control. “How can we trust you to run the Maze when you can’t even show up for the shucking Gathering?”

Minho straightened his back, glaring down at Alby with the full force of his greater height.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you would do it right. Besides, it’s not your job anymore.” Alby gave a sarcastic, cruel shrug. If Minho wasn’t so angry in that moment, he would have been concerned. Alby was tough but never sadistic.

Unfortunately, the other boy’s words hit the worst nerve possible. Minho’s expression blazed with fury, and he lunged forward to yank on the collar of Alby’s shirt. “If you don’t get the HELL out of my face RIGHT NOW, Nick’s gonna spend the rest of the day cleanin’ your pulverized ass off the ground.”

Alby, despite being known for his pacifism, raised his brows challengingly. Minho clenched the hand not fisted in the Alby’s shirt in preparation for violence.

“Hey, stand down!” The flat of Nick’s palm hit him squarely on the chest, and Minho, instantly reminded of how strong the leader was, stumbled back a step. “That’s enough. Minho, I suggest you make yourself useful in the Map Room and get this out of your system. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

Minho, still beyond pissed, refused to be distracted from Alby. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” He nearly shouted.

“I should be asking _you_ that.” In contrast, Alby’s voice was calm but deadly as he wiped the other boy’s spittle off his face.

“Minho. Map Room. Go god-damned NOW!” Nick had reached the end of his patience. “Don’t make me send you to the Slammer.”

A bolt of unease flashed through the red haze. It was enough to make Minho break his stare-down with Alby.

_What happened at the Gathering? Exactly how shucking screwed am I?_

Since the questions he really wanted to ask would probably instigate another yell-fest, Minho opted for something harmless.

“Who’s running my section?”

“That would be me,” Nick replied sharply, his half-turned posture screaming that he wanted to end the conversation.

“Comin’ outta retirement, old man?” Minho felt the flare of his anger cool temporarily to a simmer of concern. “You sure about this?”

He remembered how much the Leader hated the Maze—the looming, concrete threat to the safety of boys Nick vowed to protect.

“Not much of a choice here.”

Minho raised an eyebrow at that. “There’s always a choice.”

“Not much of one if your sleep-deprived ass is the other option,” Alby retorted. He looked like he wanted to say more, but Nick touched his shoulder with a warning hand.

“I can’t let you out there if you’re in no condition to run,” the Leader said. “It’s for your safety, Minho. Don’t take it personally.”

_Not personal my ass._

Alby thinking he needed extra vacation time was about as likely as Gally asking for his hand in marriage.

“That’s a little freakin’ difficult since you just fired me!”

“Quit spouting that load of klunk,” Nick hissed, glancing impatiently at his watch. “You can resume your Runner duties when you prove yourself.”

_And what’s that vague-as-fuck standard supposed to be? Do you want me to bench press Alby? Sing the alphabet backwards?_

Instead of demanding clarity, Minho turned away.

_Like they’ll tell me anyway…_

He had enough of their good cop/bad cop act. Now that the anger-induced adrenaline was wearing off, exhaustion filled his muscles. His headache was pounding against the walls of his skull like a disobedient child begging to be noticed.

As much as Minho wanted to keep on being pissed off at Alby, Nick, and the rest of the council—maybe punch their smug faces in, while he’s at it—he knew when to make a tactical retreat. Not that he had calmed down. No, he was just too god damned _tired_ to do anything else about it.

“Tell Ben we won’t check out the cliff today,” Nick called as Minho started in the direction of the Map Room.

_Oh, I’ll tell him more than that_ , Minho thought viciously. He jerked his head in acknowledgement.

Wrong move.

_Ugh. Shit._

Black spots danced across his vision, threatening to capsize his sense of balance. Minho barely disguised the stumble and kept walking forward, going off muscle memory rather than coordination. It would be pretty damn embarrassing if he tripped over the ground in front of Alby and Nick. Not that he gave a piece of crap about dignity.

Minho’s head had mostly cleared by the time he swayed into the shaded clearing that was the Runners’ morning meeting place.

He shouldn’t have felt surprised that the boys were lounging around as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. They raised their heads at Minho’s arrival.

_Of course they don’t know yet…at least most of them don’t_ , Minho thought bitterly. He noticed that Newt was missing and felt some relief at that. He didn’t need anyone’s pity to cutting through his shield of anger.

By the time Minho finished that thought, the Runners were watching him with various degrees of wariness. 

_Good thing there aren’t any mirrors around here._

Minho didn’t want to know what his face looked like.

“Ben,” he ground out, surprising even himself with the harshness of his voice, “we’re not going to look at the cliff today.”

The Glader addressed looked startled and wary. “Why not?”

_He’s got some nerve…_

“Playing stupid isn’t gonna help you,” Minho replied icily. Ben met his eyes steadily, but his expression conveyed more confusion and concern than anything belligerent.

He shot the flummoxed blond boy a sharp “this isn’t over” glare before turning to the group as a whole. Minho hesitated for a second before deciding to speak. It was better the Runners heard it from him than Alby or Nick.

“As of today, I’m taking a break from my Runner duties. Nick’ll be filling in for me.”

There was a long, loaded silence before the questions started coming.

“Why?”

 “For how long?”

 “Man, how did you manage to swing that? Teach me your skills.”

“What’s your problem with Ben?”

“Yeah, what the heck _is_ your problem with me?” Ben echoed the last question, creating silence once again.

_Okay, it can go down here if you want_ , Minho thought, rolling his shoulders aggressively.  Ben was a talented fighter, but the Keeper’s pissed off mood would probably more than make up for the difference.

The kind of tension that usually occurred in Gatherings suffocated the air. At least the way the Runners did things, angry steam could be let out instead of stowed away where it couldn’t ruin Alby’s carefully crafted routine.

Reading the older boy’s body language, Ben tensed.

Then, Minho winced as the noise of the Doors sliding open thundered through his head, doing no favors for the painful pounding that had long taken residence there. Facing the entire group once again, he jutted his thumb behind him.

“You shanks better get moving,” he said, voice cold as a corpse.

When every Runner had turned away wearing various expressions of nervousness, confusion, and indignation, Minho let himself fall to a crouch. He clutched his head and curled forward silently.

_“One step forward, two steps back, huh?”_

Minho closed his eyes, feeling exhausted yet unable to sleep.

_God, let me go._

For the first time in ages, Minho wasn’t waiting to dive into darkness as the tall concrete walls slid apart. The persistent twinge of pain in his head told him that perhaps it was fortunate he wasn’t allowed in the Maze anymore.

Maybe mandatory sick leave wasn’t so bad an idea after all.

* * *

_Worst. Idea. Ever._

Minho spread the past week’s worth of Maps from his section out on the large table occupying the center of the Map Room. His gaze scanned across each day’s unique layout, cataloging the differences.

His body went through the motions, but his mind wasn’t in it.

_I can’t fucking believe this. The asshole Council better not actually expect me to get work done._

His knuckles tightened on the edge of the table as his vision abruptly decided to do an interesting flipping motion. He heard a scoff from the opposite end of the room and raised his head to glare at stupid, sneering face of the source of his disbelief.

“You gonna pass out or what? ’Cause I’m here to be sure you don’t make a run for it, not play Medjack,” Gally’s voice carried the smirk Minho’s vision was too blurry to see.

Deciding he preferred unconsciousness to Gally’s company, Minho scowled. “Tell me, do you have to _try_ to piss me off or are you just naturally talented?”

“The first one. I volunteered.” Gally sat up in his chair, arms crossed. “Might surprise you, but those other shanks weren’t exactly trippin’ over themselves to babysit your cranky ass.”

“But _you_ clearly find my company pleasant.”

“Like hell,” Gally scoffed. “I wanted to talk to you privately. Now I can.”

“Can’t say the feeling’s shuckin’ mutual.”

“No problem,” the Keeper of the Builders retorted, rolling his eyes. “Just listen.”

_Like I have a choice._

Minho gave up all pretenses of being interested in the Maps and sat back in the old, creaking chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, exuding hostility in a wordless effort to get Gally to shut up.

Judging by Gally’s lack of reaction, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it.

“I want to make a deal,” he continued. “It’s pretty simple, so you shouldn’t have trouble understanding it, sleepyhead. I’ll use my influence to get the Council to vote you back if you take me as your trainee.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Minho jerked his head back as if getting a wider view would make Gally’s request more reasonable.

“You want your job back, and I want to see what’s out there.”

“There are way less complicated ways to get yourself killed, slinthead. What’s with all the effort?”

“Not like you would understand,” Gally shook his head, suddenly looking haunted. But Minho couldn’t summon sympathy for him.

“Sounds pretty damn black and white to me. Not that it matters. The answer is ‘NO.’” Minho hit his knuckles against the large wooden table between them to emphasize the word’s finality. Nick, Minho, and Alby had found Gally unsuitable for the job when he asked for it half a year ago. Minho wasn’t about to risk anyone’s life letting an unqualified loose cannon in the Maze. “There’re rules here for a reason,” he added, feeling like he was stealing Alby’s lines.

Gally looked resigned. “Thought you would say that...”

“Why’d you waste the oxygen then, klunkhead?”

“…which is why I've got some extra motivation for you.”

Minho raised his eyebrows to stop a particularly painful stab of headache from contorting his expression, waiting for Gally to continue.

“I saw you two last night. You and Newt.” Gally replied.

Minho glared at the Keeper of the Builders, but a dreadful, icy feeling crawled its way up his spine. “Enjoy the show, pervert?”

“I’m the pervert?” Gally seemed to gain confidence from Minho’s discomfort. “I’m surprised you let it get that far considering what your dreams are like.”

“My dreams?” Minho asked, voice deadly. The uncomfortable chill of dread had reached his chest now, threatening to ice over his lungs and throat.

_NO. No way in hell. Does he know…?_

“Yeah. Doubt Newt would want you anymore if he knew you wanted him _that_ way.”

“What the shucking hell are you talking about?” Minho’s fingers were white with how hard his hands gripped the table. His blunt nails dug into the wood, leaving crescent-shaped indentations.

“But it seems you don’t care either way _whether_ Newt wants you, so maybe I don’t have as much leverage here as I think.”

Every muscle fiber in Minho’s body was stiff with the effort of suppressing a fight-or-flight response. His headache ratcheted up a notch as if seeking revenge for the extra strain.

“For a closet rapist, it’s unlucky you talk a lot in your sleep,” the other boy went on, unaware of how close Minho was to jamming his fist into his face. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure out the sick things you dream about.”

_Oh, fuck. Fuck. What the FUCK!_

Minho heard something crack and felt a burst of pain in his hands. He looked down to discover that chunks of the Map table had splintered off into his harsh grip. Blood, dark and inky under the shade of the table, swelled up from his palms.

_No..._

He closed his fingers into fists around the fractured wood in his hands, digging the needle-like splinters further into flesh.

The clear, crisp pain distracted from his headache and unexpectedly grounded him. Minho looked up to meet Gally’s cool, expectant gaze. “Well? That sweeten the deal for you? I won’t tell Newt what your nightmares are _really_ about if you make me your trainee. And you’ll get your job back.”

“What makes you think he’ll believe you?” Minho replied numbly. The manipulative implications of his words made him feel like the some kind of disgusting comic book villain. “That’s a big shucking accusation.”

_Fight fire with fire…_

“An accusation you haven’t denied,” Gally replied with a shrug. “I’ll take my chances.” He tipped his chin at where blood was flowing out between the fingers of Minho’s clenched fists. “Though it looks you’ve got a lot more to lose than I do.”

Minho’s eyes rounded before narrowing into undiluted fury. “You asshole!” He shouted, lunging across the room like a cornered lion. “Fuck you!” His vision flashed red, and the next thing he saw was his bloody hands around Gally’s neck, pinning the Keeper of the Builders to the wall.

Blinded by pain and exhaustion and desperation, he squeezed down on the other boy’s throat. Rivulets of hot red blood from Minho’s hand wound ran down Gally’s collarbones and soaked into his shirt collar.

The pinned boy gasped and choked. Gally’s hands came up to tug away Minho’s fingers but only succeeded in leaving angry red scratches on the Runner’s wrists.

“Never…harm…another Glader…rule…” Gally wheezed. His face was turning a savage purple color, and the veins around his temples bulged.

_God…damn it!_

Minho backed away as if stung.

Gally sank to the ground, his torso curled forward with the violence of his coughing and gasping. Unable to move for his shock, Minho watched the other boy rigidly.

“What the hell was that!” Gally demanded when he recovered his panting breath. One of his hands had reached up to touch his reddened neck, where a collar of bruises was certain to form. His red-veined eyes glared up at Minho.

“Provoked,” was his attacker’s terse reply.

For a moment they watched each other in wary silence.

“Shit,” Gally finally said, drawing himself up to his feet and dabbing Minho’s blood off his neck and chest the best he could. “I’m gonna grab some god-damned lunch. Get your hands looked at. Don’t want you injured while you show me the Maze tomorrow.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” he rasped out.

“Then let me—and everyone—know your decision at the Gathering tomorrow,” Gally tossed back as he exited the Map Room. “That’s your deadline.”

The door slammed closed, and Minho glared at the ruined skin of his palms.

* * *

“Minho! What the hell happened to your hands?” Newt dropped his Runner pack and was at his side in an instant. Long, slender fingers cupped Minho’s bandaged hand gently, bringing them closer to a concerned brown gaze for inspection.

Minho closed his eyes against the sight of the other boy. “It’s nothing. I tripped and landed on my hands.” A crappy lie that Newt didn’t even pretend to believe.

“And your hands must have landed on a bed of nails,” the blond boy retorted, his calloused thumbs moving on to stroke over the bright red scratches Gally had left on his forearm.  “I’m guessing an angry cat appeared out of nowhere and left _these_?”

“Clint took care of it. I’m okay, Newt. _Let me go_.” His voice came out unintentionally desperate.

Newt frowned as if he knew those last three words carried extra weight with Minho. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Other than you smothering me? I’m a big boy.” He side-stepped the topic of being banned from leaving the Glade. Minho had left the Map Room before the Runners came back to avoid this inevitable probing. Apparently, he should’ve found a better hiding spot than the secluded area next to the water mill in the Gardens.

_Deadheads next time_ , he decided. He didn’t notice Newt sigh.

When Newt’s touch disappeared, Minho opened his eyes again to see the other boy bending over the small, elevated man-made river of irrigation water. He guiltily tore his gaze off of Newt’s well-sculpted backside to watch the other boy shiver as he dipped his dirty hands into the water.

Newt didn’t stop at cleaning his hands. Pale palms cupped the water and sent the glass-like liquid over a handsome face. The sparkling water dripped off Newt’s high cheek bones and swept down a gracefully sharp jawline. Clear, dewy drops caught on his eyelashes.

He had seen Newt in the shower—the blond boy had a habit of appearing there coincidentally at the same time as Minho—often enough to already know he looked irresistible when wet.

It wasn’t just sexual. The water on Newt’s pale skin created an ethereal glowing effect. It made Newt more than human. When the boy moved, the liquid glimmered like a galaxy of stars on the smooth skin of his face, neck, and forearms. Bright, never waning or fading.

Newt didn’t just reflect light, he amplified it somehow.

Nothing like ink.                                          

Minho watched, unwillingly entranced by the sight.

“Liking the view, shank?” Newt grinned cheekily at Minho as he rose again, retrieved his pack, and approached the Keeper. He proceeded to shake his head like a dog, catching Minho in the resulting spray of droplets.

Minho’s eyebrows climbed despite the mild embarrassment of being caught staring. “That little routine wasn’t necessary.”

“Yeah it was. You need fresh bandages, and I doubt you can change them on your own.”

“Whatever,” Minho scowled. He obeyed Newt’s command to sit. Newt sank down in front of him, mirroring his cross-legged posture so that their knees touched. He dug bandages and a healing salve out of his pack before pulling Minho’s hand onto his lap.

After issuing a half-hearted grumble, Minho allowed Newt to methodically unwrap the slightly bloody length of cloth Clint fastened a few hours ago. His touch was gentle in a way that didn’t hold intent but heated Minho’s blood nonetheless. Minho shuttered his gaze, letting himself enjoy the treatment.

“Bloody hell,” Newt said after the gauze fabric fell away. “It looks like you high-fived a blender.”

“Great work, Nancy Drew,” Minho snorted, fighting the urge to pull his hand back as if it would let him escape Newt’s prodding. “But you should stick to playin’ doctor.”

Newt frowned at the not-so-subtle hint to fuck off, and Minho braced himself for the biting reply he deserved. However, instead of speaking, Newt propped Minho’s hand on his knee and reached for the salve. He uncapped the slick substance and coated his fingers in it.

Minho winced at the initial sting of Newt’s touch but stayed silent as the other boy dressed the wound. Newt didn’t speak again until he unraveled the other hand.

“Double high-five, huh?” Newt gave Minho a half-smile that dripped with concern and withheld curiosity. His fingers stroked the knuckles of Minho’s hand carefully before reaching for the salve.

“That wasn’t funny the first time,” he answered, wondering why Newt was acting so cautious around him.

_Probably because I’m pissed off and dead tired..._

At least, he should’ve been pissed. Around Newt, his negative emotions seemed to dissolve away. The maps, the tattoo, Gally’s blackmail…they all seemed far away now that Newt sat in front of him, touching him like he was fragile.

His problems felt washed away like the Maze dirt on Newt’s hands, gone with a glimmer of crystal water.

_He’s the sun…and all I have are shadows…_

Minho watched Newt unabashedly. His eyes traced the waves of Newt’s golden hair before sliding past the furrow of his darker eyebrows and the glint of his long, downcast eyelashes. He took in the other boy’s focused expression before following his gaze to their hands.

Newt’s pale fingers danced deftly across Minho’s sun-kissed ones, leaving a trail of clean, white gauze.

“Take a picture. It lasts longer.” Newt’s voice caught Minho’s attention just as he finished wrapping and let his hand go. Minho met Newt’s eyes with a warm grin, but Newt wasn’t smiling back.

The furrow in his brow had deepened, and Newt looked…apprehensive.

“You okay, shank?”

Newt let out a forced laugh. “ _You’re_ the one asking _me_?”

Minho frowned. “What’s wrong, Newt?”

The boy across from him wore a similar expression to the one Ben had when he hesitated over telling Minho about the cliff. Except the Newt’s eyes looked more skittish, more wary. He almost looked frightened.

A painful coldness seized Minho’s mind at the familiarity of the sight.

_I’m not dreaming...I’m not dreaming_ , he forced his brain to chant like a mantra.

Newt must have noticed Minho tense up because his expression changed into a reassuring mask. A concrete dam holding back a tide of… _something_.

“Newt,” Minho repeated sternly. “Let it out.”

_Shit, let it go..._

“Right,” Newt said, looking away from Minho for a moment. When their gazes met again, Newt’s face was full of determination. “You missed the Gathering this morning.”

“And?” Minho frowned, not liking where this was going.

“And I didn’t.” Newt’s hands had taken Minho’s again and were holding them firmly but gently. “I went to the Gathering…and I proposed to the Council that they make you take a break. I told them how you hadn’t slept properly in so long…and how you’ve been getting those stupid nightmares…how you haven’t been eating enough.” Newt narrowed his eyes in a flash of anger not directed at Minho. “It was so buggin’ _hard_ convincing them to let you go. You should be mad at me, not Ben.” Newt watched him nervously for his reaction.

“You’re lying.” There was no other explanation. Minho’s head spun. Newt would never betray him like that.

“Minho—”

“You said you’d wait for me. You promised to let me handle it!”

“You looked so _bloody_ tired! I’m afraid you’ll get hurt in the Maze.” Newt’s eyes were wide and beseeching. “Please understand!”

“God-damn it, Newt!” His headache came back with hellish vengeance. Minho tried to tug his hands out of Newt’s grip to grab at his pounding head, but the other boy held tight. He sent the boy before him a bitter glare.

Newt looked hurt but insistent. “I won’t shucking apologize for this,” he replied defiantly. “Even if I’ve lost your trust. I’ll never be sorry for keeping you safe.”

_That’s not your job…_

Minho rubbed his eyes with his wrists, trying to scrub away the black spots suddenly speckling his vision. They blocked out Newt’s face. Made him feel like he was talking to darkness.

_“Besides, it’s not your job anymore.”_ Alby’s words came as if prompted.

“Let me go!” This time, Newt complied. Wanting to _get the hell away_ from him, Minho stumbled up to his feet.

Bad idea. A wave of dizziness hit him like a train. He barely registered falling to his knees.

“Minho! Are you okay?”

The world was tilting. Familiar pain seared his brain, and exhaustion coursed through his veins. Newt’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Firm arms wrapped around Minho’s shoulders, and a surprisingly strong body took his weight.

“Say something! C’mon!”

Newt’s hands gripped Minho’s head and tilted his face up. Minho didn’t see the light brown gaze that searched his blank eyes futilely for sparks of life. Darkness and numbness encroached like spilled ink on his consciousness.

“Please! MINHO!”

_Let me go_ , Minho told the inky darkness. He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t listen. Instead, the dark flooded forth, extinguishing the pain. The last sound he heard before his senses faded was Newt’s panicked shouting.

“GET CLINT! JEFF! SOMEONE _HELP_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the action rolls on! Please, readers, please let me know what you think of the fic so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter, finally! Sorry it took so long, guys. Please remember to let me know what you think! Seriously, feedback means the world to me.

“Well, this is different,” Minho said as soon as he realized that he could control his voice.

It wasn’t _that_ different, but something tangibly so thrummed through the air. He still sat in the dark cavernous space of his nightmares, and his skin still prickled with cold sweat. He could sense Not-Newt perched on the bench next to him, as usual. But mechanical buzzing didn’t saturate the air, and the only pain he felt was from the healing skin already marked with ink.

“Are you gonna start or something?” He asked Not-Newt with a voice full of bitterness and disdain that he would never have used speaking to the real Newt. Minho gestured at the half-finished rendering that crawled across his chest and shoulders. “We usually have a shuckin’ schedule to keep.”

“You haven’t told me to.” Not-Newt didn’t look surprised or hurt by Minho’s harshness. Rather, he sounded resigned, which did nothing to mitigate Minho’s confusion.

“Now why would I do that? Do I look like I enjoy it?”

“ _Do_ you enjoy it? You’ve been the one buggin’ unable to stop.”

“Don’t turn this into philosophical shit,” Minho growled. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

Instead of answering, Not-Newt brought his hand to the back of Minho’s neck and massaged soothingly. Minho stiffened at the touch before relaxing into its familiarity. It felt achingly like the real Newt.

“You don’t enjoy everything you do,” Minho finally replied. “That’s how it works.” The darkness around them ate the words up, like a telephone receiver with a stranger on the other side.

“Why?”

“I do what I have to,” Minho said. “That’s my job. I’m a Runner.”

“You don’t have to be a Runner…You don’t have to do this to yourself.” Not-Newt’s cool, gentle fingers smoothed down Minho’s shoulders and back, drawing out a sting slight enough to almost be pleasant. “You don’t have to do this to us.”

Minho flinched away. “I want to find a way out, and I want to protect everyone…I want to protect Newt.”

“Even though it hurts?” Slender fingers abruptly pressed harshly into his skin, sending a spasm of pain through his unhealed shoulder. The sting followed the path of the Maze permanently inked into his skin…into his mind. Minho winced.

“If it hurts me, it won’t hurt any other shanks. Or him. That’s the klunkin’ point.”

“How do you know you’re not hurting him in the process?” Not-Newt lifted the edge of his sienna-colored shirt, revealing a mottled canvas of bruises. Bruises shaped like Minho’s hands.

Black guilt tore through Minho’s chest, stinging more than his unhealed skin. Without making the conscious decision, his hand extended towards the flat plane of Not-Newt’s stomach. He fit his fingers over a particularly dark bruise, feeling the other’s sharp eyes pinning him like an insect.

“I…”

“You can’t stop hurting me,” Not-Newt told him, his expression turning cruel. Minho had never seen that much hatred stain that kind, handsome face. “Just like you can’t stop hurting _him_ —the real Newt. All you do is take.”

 _Something’s got to give_ , Minho thought, the words coming unbidden to the dark swirl in his mind.

“You’ve got to give,” Not-Newt echoed. “Or you’ve got to let go.” Long, dexterous fingers wrapped around the hand splayed across bruised skin.

“Hey, could you be less specific?” Minho demanded sarcastically. He flexed the tendons of his wrists under Not-Newt’s grip. “What the hell does that mean?”

Not-Newt didn’t answer at first, but when he did, a darker version of his usual playful smirk danced across his lips. “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“Asshole,” Minho retorted without feeling, suddenly overcome with the sensation of hollowness. He let his eyes flicker closed, but Newt’s face seemed emblazoned into his eyelids like a specter.

“Why don’t you let it all go?” Not-Newt’s hand on his wrist made its way up along his arm to his stinging shoulders, brushing softly over sore skin.

“I can’t. They’re counting on me.” When Minho opened his eyes again, Not-Newt’s hands were braced on his shoulders, tugging him forward.

Minho slumped forward into the other boy’s embrace, pressing his face, sticky with sweat, into the cool juncture of his neck and shoulders. Familiar veined, muscled arms held Minho close. Gentle hands skated across the aching skin of his back and chest, numbing the pain away.

For a moment, Minho felt safe and warm.

_Don’t let me go…_

He closed his eyes against the inky darkness.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was still dark.

_Shit!_

Panic surged up Minho’s spine, the dark familiarity of his surroundings giving birth to the bitterly cold fear of _never waking up_.

Minho shot upright violently and jumped off the bed to his feet, muscles tensed. The air around him tasted dry and suffocating.

His eyes darted around the room and recognized it as the one the Medjacks appropriated for sick boys.

“ _I’m sick._ ”

_I’m not sick!_

Unable to quiet the alarms going off in his head, Minho stumbled in his haste to bolt to the door and caught himself on the tarnished doorknob with a grunt. With a shaky twist of his wrist, he swung the creaky hinges open and slid into the hallway.

Without waiting for his heartbeat to slow, Minho staggered through the Homestead’s labyrinthine structure and let himself out the back door.

The sky was dark. The dim, distant light of stars flickered above, reminding Minho of water droplets.  Breathing heavily, Minho braced his back against the building and waited for his body to _calm the fuck down._

_I’m awake…_

Memories of Newt washing his face surfaced as Minho dug into the shallow reservoir of his memories. The bandages, his stinging hands, the splinters, the blood…Gally…

_Damn, how long was I out?_

Minho glanced at his wrist to discover his watch wasn’t there—only a pale, glowing expanse of fresh gauze. The sight struck an uneasy feeling in his chest. According to all the laws of his personality, he should’ve felt desperate to track down Newt. To give him a piece of his mind about interfering, because it wasn’t Newt’s job to treat him like a god-damned kid.

Yet, he really just wanted to avoid his best friend at all costs. At least until he escaped this horrible state of _messed up_.

Minho straightened up, pushing with his elbows off of the wall. He needed to regroup...he needed to figure this shit out. And maybe try to get some sleep, though he wasn’t looking forward to _that_ prospect at all.

_I didn’t ask for this…_

But did he? It was his job after all. Whatever problem his screwed up subconscious had with that was not as important as his responsibility to keep his Runners safe.

But here he was, considering risking all their lives by bringing in an unqualified asshole so that he could selfishly keep his secrets.

 _“Bloody hell, more heroic klunk.”_ Newt’s words slipped into his mind. It begged the question…Why the hell was he doing all of this anyway? It would be so easy to quit…so easy to let go…

“But I do what I have to,” Minho muttered aloud. Letting go was never an option. Not in merciless world of the Maze.

_“Not much of a choice.”_

_“There’s always a choice.”_

His earlier conversation with Nick echoed in his head. He remembered Nick’s well-but-imperfectly hidden fear of the Maze. Gally’s desperation to become a Runner. They needed more Runners, and Minho couldn’t let the Leader down.

_I need my job back._

Decision made, Minho walked towards his sleeping bag with half-serious plans to try sleeping again. The heaviness of his feet made it feel like he was wearing shackles.

But when he got there, someone else was already bundled into plush polyester. Gold hair peeked out of the top, gently reflecting the moon.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Minho glanced around for Newt’s sleeping bag, but it was conspicuously missing. Before he could turn and flee, an arm abruptly swung out and gripped him around the ankle.

“Shit!” Minho involuntarily kicked out a foot, catching Newt’s arm with his socked feet.

“Bloody hell!” Newt cried out almost simultaneously. The boy sat up quickly in Minho’s sleeping bag, rubbing his arm. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Damn straight. What is this, a shucking horror movie? Could’ve sworn we were in a dystopian novel.” _Or stupid soap opera,_ his mind supplied. But while his mouth was delivering his usual snark, Minho’s heart raced. He fidgeted, trying not to show how spooked he’d really been.

Judging by the too-damn-familiar look of concern on Newt’s face, he wasn’t doing a good job at it. “Minho, you okay?”

“Get the hell outta my sleeping bag, Newt,” he answered tiredly.

Though the worry didn’t disappear from his face, Newt blinked accusingly up at Minho. “It’s not like you’ve been using it much these days anyways.”

“It’s not like you don’t have your own. Did you think ambushing me would get you back onto the good list?”

“You technically came to me.”

“I came to my sleeping bag,” Minho growled before he turned on his heel, intending to return to the Homestead despite dreading how lonely it would be.

“Wait, Minho!” The sleeping bag rustled, and, surprisingly fast, Newt’s hand latched tightly onto Minho’s wrist.

“What the hell do you want?” Minho twisted out of his grip but waited for Newt’ response.

“To talk.”

“Not in the mood.”

“Sit with me?”

“Let me go.”

“C’mon, sleepyhead, you probably—okay, rightfully—don’t like me right now, but you need someone. That’s how people work.” 

“Yeah,” Minho huffed petulantly but obeyed the order, following the warmth of Newt’s encouraging arm across his shoulders. They sat side by side on top of Minho’s sleeping bag, Newt cross-legged and Minho with one knee propped up.

“You’re not Superman,” Newt said quietly, gaze on Minho’s hands.

“What time is it?” he asked instead of replying.

“Four in the morning,” Newt answered, bringing the wrist of the arm looped around Minho’s neck to his face and pulling Minho closer in the process. “You slept for a while.”

_Didn’t feel that long…_

Minho felt better than he had in weeks, but he still felt exhausted.

“Do ya want to go back to sleep?”

“No.”

Newt didn’t look surprised. “You need to bloody tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“You don’t trust me,” Minho replied, shifting the subject back on Newt’s betrayal. If Newt wanted to force this crap, he refused to be the only one in the hot seat.

“I trust you to take care of all the other shanks here, but I can’t trust you with yourself.” Newt sighed. “Do you have to be so klunkin’ heroic all the time? It’s so easy to fall in love with you, but it’s so god-damned _hard_ to love you.”

Minho tensed. “It’s an all or none kinda deal. That’s how people work.”

Newt’s expression darkened, and Minho immediately regretted throwing the other boy’s words back at him. “Doesn’t seem to be workin’ for you,” Newt responded sardonically, tipping his chin forward as if whatever Minho looked like was enough to prove that.

_Don’t doubt it…_

Minho winced. That attitude didn’t fit the Newt. The pain and dismay twisted Newt’s shadowed features into something ghoulish. Something dark, trapped, and restless gleamed in his eyes.

He looked like he was on the verge of some loud, troublesome outburst, so Minho opted to defuse.

_It’s not like staying mad at you is any good…_

He took a deep, bracing breath. “Guess I needed a reality check then.”

“What?” Newt eyed Minho suspiciously.

“That’s what this is, right? You think I can’t handle myself…and you’re right. I’m shucking messed up.”

“More than you bloody know, Minho.” Newt shook his head, long fingers pinched around his forehead like he was battling a headache.

“What?” Minho’s head spun painfully with his automatic reaction, which was to jolt it towards Newt. Dryness crept in his throat.

_Did Gally say something?_

Newt glared resolutely away, leaving Minho tense and clueless.

“Newt…” Minho reached for Newt’s chin, a tender gesture that he hoped would elicit cooperation.

“No, Minho!” Newt backed away almost violently.

“Newt…” Minho’s heart pounded. Newt, afraid of his touch…

“I’m tired of this, Minho…”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Newt,” he said, voice raspy with the fear suddenly coursing through his chest.

“Everything. You.” Newt took a shaky breath, like he was trying desperately to not cry. “I just confessed I love you and you didn’t even bloody acknowledge it!”

_“It’s so easy to fall in love with you…”_

_Shit..._

_“All you do is take…” And something’s gotta give._

“Newt, I—”

“And there you go, off playing hero without caring whoever you hurt in the process…You don’t give a _damn_ about the people you’re saving, do you? All you care about is the god-damn warm and fuzzy feeling of risking your stupid life!”

“How the _hell_ can that be true?” Minho demanded, suddenly pissed. Was no one on his side anymore?

_What the hell did I do to get in all this crap?_

Yet, a quiet, disobedient side of him was relieved Newt still didn’t know about dreams.

Minho gripped Newt’s shoulders, ready to shake some sense into the other boy. Before he could secure his hands firmly on the muscle, Newt moved fast.

“LET ME GO!” The tearing of fabric cut through the air between them as Newt’s threadbare white tee shirt tore apart with the force of their opposing pulls. His expression contorted with pain and desperation, Newt ripped away from Minho’s grip and bolted away.

“Newt…Fuck!” Watching the other boy go, he was numb and hollow.

Glancing down, Minho could relate to the pale fabric in his hands—he felt worn thin and torn apart.

* * *

Minho felt like he was chasing after wind, and not in the exhilarating way he sometimes got from running. It was in the pointless, fruitless way, like nothing he did would amount to anything. He felt hollow in a world he couldn’t control.

_I’m god-damn wrong…there’s not always a choice._

The sleep he slipped into after Newt left came easily, now that reality somehow managed to out-nightmare his nightmares. As if his subconscious was taunting him, his sleep was dreamless and uninterrupted.

He woke up shortly before sunrise. A soft ombre of lavender lapped at the edges of the horizon, signaling Minho had just over an hour before Gathering.

_And my not-really-a-choice choice._

Like he needed to think about it. Losing Newt was not an option. Assuming he hadn’t lost him already. Minho grimaced as the events of the night before played in his head, a horrific film reel with images from his nightmares mixed in.

Minho kicked out of his sleeping bag and grabbed his Runner pack and clothes. He hoped the showers were empty.

_Need some god-damn alone time…_

“It’s about time, sleeping beauty,” and a gust of shower steam was what greeted him when he tugged open the door to the communal bathroom.

_…Fuck._

“Nick.”

“How’s it goin’, Minho?” Nick tipped his head out of the curtain-less shower stall, his face concerned but friendly. “Didn’t think I’d be saying this any time soon, but I’m glad you’re awake.”

Minho drew a smile on his face that probably looked more like a grimace. “Been worse.”

Nick seemed to sense that Minho wanted to be alone and sent him a reassuring grin that creased the corners of his mouth. His head disappeared, and the sound of running water turned off.

“I’m very klunkin’ glad you feel better.” The Leader stepped out of the stall, dripping wet. His hair, darkened to an inky black color by water, was plastered to his head.  As Nick dried himself off with a scratchy white towel, he spoke again. “Whatever’s been bothering you...just remember that it’s not your fault. This place is shucked up as hell, and it’s not your job to make everything right.”

“Got it.”

“I’m serious. Don’t think losing a battle means you can’t win the war. Superheroes make mistakes too. You’ve gotta let this shit go.”

_Let it go…_

“Yeah, thanks, Dad.” Minho frowned, startled by the familiarity of the superhero analogy.

“That said, you wanna talk about it?” Nick’s voice, though light, dripped with a commanding, comforting sincerity. His tone was concerned and open, but not pushy. A few beats of silence passed in between them before Minho took a breath. When he exhaled, the words came unbidden.

“Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, the world’s gonna shuck you up anyways? Like you can’t control anything.”

“All the shuckin’ time. I am the Leader after all,” Nick shrugged good-humoredly, as if the massive weight of all the Gladers’ well-being wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. After wrapping the towel around his waist, the Leader approached Minho and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. The water on his hand transferred to Minho’s shirt, darkening it with moisture like ink on paper.  “It’s something you have to get used to. I trust you, Minho. Have more faith in yourself. You hear me?”

 _Trust is what gets shanks into trouble,_ Minho couldn’t help thinking. Rather than voice that flowers-and-sunshine sentiment out loud, he nodded. “I hear you.”

“Alright then,” Nick clapped Minho on the back before exiting the bathroom the way the Runner had entered. “See you at the Gathering,” he called over his shoulder.

* * *

Nick was the first person Minho saw at the Gathering. He sat in the middle of the Council, looking commanding but relaxed. Nick’s face, looking older than he probably really was, held none of the fear of the Maze Minho had seen in the past and none of the vulnerable concern he’d seen earlier that morning.

The Leader was stable as cement. He held the Glade together.

The Council went through its routine squabbles, though Minho didn’t participate this time, stripped of his rank.

Observing the proceedings, he tried to see the Gathering from the Leader’s perspective. Rather than boring, the meeting became a minefield. Nick had to mediate disagreements, create compromises, and keep order among boys who had no memories of their past and feared where they lived.

By the time the subject of the Gathering turned to him, Minho had a newfound respect for Nick.

“Now, we have one more matter to deal with before we break for the day,” Nick announced, exuding his usual, casual authority. “Minho needs a work assignment for the duration of his mandatory leave from Keeper of the Runners. Before I make my recommendation, I’ll open the floor for the Council’s. You shanks got anything?”

Unlike the rest of the topics pitched in the Gathering, this one was met with silence. Pushing back a clot of nervousness in his throat, Minho waited for a beat before raising his hand. Nick’s eyes widened, but he took it in stride.

“It’s not protocol for the slinthead in question to give a recommendation, but you haven’t broken any rules, so you deserve a say. Go ahead, Minho.”

Minho took a breath, rolling the half-rehearsed words around in his mind as if to taste them before letting them flow. “Yeah, thanks, Nick. I recommend that the Council reinstate me as Keeper of the Runners—”

Alby rolled his eyes. “You’re wasting our time. Got any _serious_ recommendations, shank?”

“Hey, I’m not done,” Minho glared at the second-in-command. “From what I understand, the only reason I’m suspended is that I wasn’t getting enough sleep. Well, I got a full night last night, and I feel better.” He held up a silencing hand when a few Council members started to speak up in protest. “I don’t expect you shanks to take my word for it, so I’m asking you to let me prove myself. I’d like to take on a new trainee today—which doesn’t even require going into the Maze. It’s a risk-free test, and if it works out, we might have a new Runner.”

“And who would that trainee be?” Nick asked, brows raised. His expression was careful, but thankfully open-minded.

_Here it goes…_

“Gally.”

Nick frowned. “You want to train someone we’ve found unworthy?”

“What I _want_ is to train more Runners. ’Cause we need more Runners. I’m the Keeper, it’s my job to know their limits, and trust me, we need more people to share the burden.” Minho put on his best heroically-tired-but-determined expression. “Gally’s the best shuckin’ choice we’ve got right now.”

By now, all eyes were on Gally, who was pretending to be startled.

Alby watched Minho with suspicion. “You sure that’s all you want to do?” Minho shrugged in response, brushing the question off.

_You always told me to pick my battles. Here, majority rules…_

And the rest of the Council had taken the bait. Most of the Keepers looked sympathetic.  Despite all the opposition to the Runners getting dibs on meat, the Council respected the boys who did the most dangerous job in the Glade. Minho didn’t regret—for the most part—manipulating that sentiment. What he did feel bad about was breaking Nick’s trust.

“Well,” Nick sat back in his chair, his relaxed stance defusing whatever tension was left in the room instantaneously. “I trust you, Minho.”

_And there I go to Hell…_

“Thanks, Nick.”

The Leader turned to Gally with thoughtful eyes. “You still wanna be a Runner?”

“Yeah,” Gally answered with the appropriate amount of surprise and reverence.

“Okay, I officially recommend what Minho just said. Gally becomes a trainee, and Minho is reinstated as Keeper of the Runners, given that he completes the first day Gally’s training successfully. Any of you shanks got objections?”

Nick’s eyes did a sweep of the room, hesitating on Alby’s stony face before moving on. When no one spoke up, he wrote something down on his notepad.  

“Then it’s official. Gathering dismissed.”

* * *

 “That was a damn good performance,” Gally commented as they headed towards the Runners’ shed. “It must be nice to have Nick on your side all the time.”

“Shut the hell up.” Minho was in no mood to talk to the other boy. He swung open the shed door with too much force before going about gathering the materials for a new Runner’s pack. He tossed the bundle at Gally. “And don’t thank me, klunkhead.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Gally sneered. “Just know that your secret’s safe with me now.”

“Put these on,” Minho growled, passing him a rough leather harness, running shoes, a watch, and a new pair of Runnie-undies. “You have to get used to wearing everything, so you need them for your drills today. Meet me in the Map Room when you’re done.”

Though Minho would never admit it, Gally was a fast learner. It took less time than expected for him to memorize the maps for the section of the Maze he planned to assign him to. Before lunch, they were out in the clearing in front of the North Wall for physical drills.

Sweat soaked through parts of Gally’s brown shirt, darkening it like ink.

As he watched him complete the exercises faster than any other trainee he’d taken on, Minho had a hard time remembering why they’d rejected Gally from being a Runner. The Builder’s fitness was undeniable, and he was the kind of quick-thinking smart that meant life or death in the Maze. Minho would never to admit it, but Gally’s problem-solving skills rivaled even the senior Runners’—maybe even Newt’s. Speaking of Newt…

Minho was distracted from his thoughts when Gally tapped his shoulder for his next set of instructions, expression smug.

_Maybe it was his god-damned attitude…_

“Just do some stretches—and do it thoroughly, you don’t want any shucked up muscles. Then you can take a lunch break.” Minho turned away, eager to appease his stomach now that his appetite had somehow come back.

_Sleep can do damn wonders…_

But before he could take his first step toward the Kitchen, something loud and blond bolted out of the North Door.  “Newt?”

“Minho! Nick’s…in trouble! There—there’s a bloody Griever!” Newt gasped, sounding like he’d run a mile at top speed. “The…Cliff!”

“What happened, Newt?” Minho demanded, alarmed by his exhausted state, the fear in his light brown eyes.

“What’s going on?” Gally demanded, jogging up to them. “What’s wrong?”

“We…” Newt panted, bracing his hands on his knees. “We need to shuckin’ go NOW! Minho!” He grabbed Minho’s arm when he was slow to respond and started tugging him towards the door he emerged from. “I came as fast as I could…You need to save him!”

Fear stabbed through Minho’s chest like buzzing needle. It crept through his veins and frosted his blood over.

_Nick..._

He sprinted into the inky darkness of the Maze.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am so, so sorry about how overdue this chapter is. To those following this fic, thanks for all the patience I don't deserve. We're getting close to the end.
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

“Newt, stay in the Glade!” Green vines blurred past Minho’s vision as he ran through the shadowed corridors towards the Cliff.

“No way in bloody _hell_ I’m letting you do this alone!”

 _Right. He still hates me for the klunkhead hero thing_.

He briefly considered arguing the point, but time was running out. Might have already run out. So he ran on, Newt hard at his heels. The other boy’s steps echoed down the passage surprisingly loudly. It was strange was how arrhythmic they were…

_Wait..._

The realization came like a slap to the face. There was more than one set of pounding steps following him.

“What the fuck!” He came to an abrupt stop, skidding on the dirt and concrete. “I don’t have time for this. Gally, get the _hell_ out of here!”

“I’m qualified, okay?” Gally barely avoided crashing into Minho as he stopped too. His eyes blazed with determination. “I can be useful!”

“You’re gonna get all of us god-damned killed!” Minho shouted, his patience cut to the quick by desperation and fear.

“Minho! We need to bloody go!” Newt, who had blown past Minho, called back from several yards ahead.

_Damn it!_

Minho switched his glare between Newt and Gally before letting out a frustrated groan. “Whatever. Just stay the hell outta my way.”

Without looking for confirmation, Minho took off again.

_Fucking fuck._

As his feet raced for the Cliff, his mind raced for a plan. Despite years of running the Maze, he’d never glimpsed a Griever up close before. The boys’ only source of knowledge on the monstrous beings was from hearing their metallic screeching noises and seeing their whirring, glowing lights through the wall windows at night.

No one had seen one and lived.

_Play it safe…_

Now that Newt and Gally had decided to turn this into a little class field trip, he couldn’t take risks. No way was Newt getting hurt.

_“I trust you, Minho.”_

_Damn it._

He slowed significantly as neared the turns that would take him to the Cliff. He narrowed his eyes, listening carefully for out-of-place scraping sounds.

By the time he reached the last corner before the corridor leading to the Cliff he’d slowed to a silent tiptoe, Newt and Gally shadowing his steps like god-damned ducklings.

When he peeked around the corner, his muscles seized up at the sight.

_Oh, fuck._

Whatever he expected Ben’s Cliff to look like, it wasn’t this.

Minho was looking at the edge of the world. There was a horizon, but nothing recognizable beyond where the Maze ended and empty air began. In that horrible instant, Minho’s understanding of his world changed. They—the Glade, the Maze, everything they knew—were on some kind of super-plateau miles above…something. Something that was too far down for Minho to see.

Even in broad daylight, whatever was below them was too distant, too shrouded in shadows to comprehend.

_This can’t be real. I’m dreaming…_

“What are you looking at?” Gally demanded, pushing past Minho, who had yet to recover the presence of mind to stop him. It wouldn’t have been necessary, though, since the Cliff did the trick. The Builder’s tall form froze as he peered down the Cliff into the nothingness.

“Bloody shucking hell,” Newt breathed, also brushing past Minho half a second later.

The three boys stood before the Cliff like deer in headlights. Only it wasn’t light that held them helplessly still—it was darkness. The void felt like it was sucking Minho in, like the waves of ink that tried to drown him in his nightmare…he felt dangerously breathless…

 _Shit, breathe. Focus_.

_“You’re awake.”_

He needed to find Nick. With sharp intake of breath, he tore himself away from darkness and turned to examine the Maze that stretched out behind them. He listened…

“Do you hear that?” Minho touched Newt’s back urgently with the flat of his palm between his shoulder blades.

“What?” Newt turned away from the Cliff with obvious difficulty and tilted his head toward the walls.

The quiet scratching sound that Minho could’ve been imagining got louder. Newt’s gaze met Minho’s, and their eyes widened simultaneously.

“Run! This way!” Minho grabbed Newt by the wrist and tugged him in the opposite direction of the sound.

“Bloody—Gally!” Newt shouted, initially not budging. A few feet away, Gally still hovered close to the edge of the Cliff, having not yet snapped out of its paralyzing hypnosis.

_Ugh, what the hell…_

“Hey Mr. Useful! It’s time to shuckin’ go!” When Gally still didn’t move, Minho lunged forward, grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him away from the Cliff. Gally stumbled a few steps, expression terrified as he twisted around and shoved Minho away. “Hey, chill out.”

“I…” Gally looked scared—really, truly scared. It was the carnal kind of fear that only animals with no rationality, no understanding, could feel.

“Yo, Gally…” Minho hesitated from grabbing Gally again, which was what he would’ve done if he didn’t feel a strange kinship to Builder in that moment.

_We’re all just afraid…there are no heroes…_

He thought about Nick.

_“Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, the world’s gonna shuck you up anyways?”_

_“It’s something you have to get used to.”_

“GALLY! Move it!” Newt shouted with a new terrified edge to his voice.

Minho quickly realized why—the sounds of the Griever were getting louder. Then, he heard something that made his chest simultaneously swell with relief and plummet with dread.

Nick’s voice.

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

Minho didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed Gally’s arm and dragged him into a blind run down the nearest corridor, away from the Cliff and the Griever. The Builder, who seemed to have finally come to his senses, didn’t waste time charging forward past Minho.

Minho had the feeling Gally wouldn’t have stopped running at all if he didn’t call him back less than a minute later.

“Hey, take a breather, shank! It’s not after us.”

 Gally, panting heavily, gave Minho a disbelieving glare. “Why? Do you have a screw loose? It was right there!”

Being pissed off at Gally suddenly took a back seat to the cold pit of fearful realization growing in Minho’s gut.

They had split up.

There were only two paths.

The Griever had gone after Newt and Nick.

 “The only god-damned reason it’s not chasing after us is it’s that it’s chasing after _them_.” Minho replied angrily. “If you’re not interested in saving them anymore, be my shucking guest.” His mind raced for a plan as his mouth spewed expletives.

“I…” Gally hesitated. If Minho had bothered to look, he would have noticed that the expression of unadulterated fear from the Cliff had never left the Builder’s face. Gally stood on the verge of hyperventilation.

Minho glanced around for inspiration. There was no way he was going to try to take the Griever in a fight, as much as he wanted to pound the evil thing into dust. For all he knew, it was indestructible, and that was a risk he sure as shit wasn’t going to take.

He would have to help Newt and Nick lose it. Leading it out of the Maze, into the Glade was not an option.

It there was a way to trick it, or go where it couldn’t go….

_The vines…_

There was no knowing whether the Griever could climb, either, but up the walls was their best bet given there was fuck-all else to work with.

 _If it gets down to it, I can pull off some Tarzan klunk_ , Minho thought, abruptly reaching forward to test the strength of the ivy. If the Griever was as large and hulking as it sounded, this might actually work.

“What are we gonna do?” Gally’s voice, raw and scared, dragged Minho’s attention.

Plan formed, he turned back to Gally. If the idiot had not blackmailed him, Minho might have felt bad for him. Gally had sunken against the opposite wall, broad shoulders turned in in a way that made him look half his size. This was probably the worst possible way for anyone to experience their first time in the Maze, but it was nothing Gally didn’t choose.

Minho scowled.

 _The slinthead’s a shucking coward. Guess that’s why he didn’t make Runner_ , Minho thought mercilessly.

“I’m going after them,” Minho grunted, reaching behind himself to unsheathe a long, jagged knife from his Runner’s harness. The prominent muscles of his arm rippled as he clenched his fingers around the cloth-bound handle, testing its weight. “You coming, shank?”

To his credit, Gally steeled his expression and got up. He looked scared but determined to prove himself.

“Yeah, I just…I want to help.”

Minho withheld his skepticism at how helpful Gally could be, opting instead to head down the corridor to the left—a shortcut to where he guessed Newt and Nick would have run.

The metallic roars of the Griever were unmistakable and easy to follow.

Minho listened carefully, trying to determine Nick and Newt’s position. He needed the shuck thing to chase him instead—he could climb the wall, make it give up and go away.

_Easy as cake…Yeah, right._

“Gally, how well do you know the Map from this morning?” It would be best they could split up—that way, they’d never both be trapped together.

“I know it.”

 _At least he can do_ something _…_

“Good. Remember that three way intersection two walls down from the Cliff? Take that left,” Minho gestured at the said hallway, which led down a path twisting away from the Griever noises. “And meet me there. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Gally nodded jerkily, and Minho decided he cared a hell of a lot more about the imminent threat of Newt and Nick being turned into Griever chew toys than Gally’s existential crisis.

As they headed in opposite directions, Minho was relieved to get Gally out of his hair. Now, he could narrow his focus on the sounds of the Griever, try to pinpoint its location.

He was so focused on the Griever that when the foliage next to him rustled, he jumped three feet into the air, heart pounding in his throat.

“Shuck!”

A very familiar accented voice swore, and Newt tumbled out of the shrubbery in a flash of golden hair. He landed at Minho’s feet and their gazes immediately met.

“Hey,” Minho said intelligently.

Then, he took in the panicked gleam in Newt’s eyes and the numbing cloud of relief that Newt was alive faded away.

“You okay? What happened?” Minho kneeled down next to Newt, bracing his hands on Newt’s shoulders as the Runner sat up shakily.

“We were running away together…it was chasing us. He suddenly told me to stay hidden and then he shoved me into the bushes and kept on running,” Newt explained, looking dismayed. “The bloody Griever followed him.”

“That stupid shuckin’ heroic asshole,” Minho growled in frustration.

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Newt, despite looking exhausted and worried, arched an eyebrow at him.

“Not the time, shuckface. I’ve got a plan, though.” Minho paused a moment, before adding the afterthought: “You might not like it.”

“When have I _ever_ liked your bloody plans?”

“I need to get the Griever to go after me.”

Newt stared at him like he’d grown a second head before scowling. “Just tell me what to do, and remember, if you die, I’m gonna bloody kill you.”

Minho, who had been poised to launch into an elaborate explanation of why the stupid-sounding thing he wanted to do wasn’t actually stupid, was briefly left speechless by Newt’s quick concession.

_Shouldn’t be surprised he’s over me by now..._

Minho stumbled forward when Newt abruptly used his arm as leverage to stand up.

Suddenly, he was enveloped securely in Newt’s firm arms. Despite lasting less than a second, the tight hug left Minho feeling warm and dizzy with a sudden happiness.

“Uh…”

“Well? What do you want me to do?” There was a smirk in Newt’s voice.

* * *

 

Nick’s voice rang through the air, breathless and frantic.

“Get the hell out of the Maze! Leave me behind!”

“You’re kinda missing the point of me being _in_ the Maze!” Minho shouted right back. “I have a plan!”

Through his heavy panting, Nick managed to chuckle. He was probably was too out of breath for any kind of verbal reply, so Minho interpreted that as a “Get the hell on with it.”

And he did.

They rounded a few corners, Nick following Minho’s lead.

_Not far off now…_

After slowing down incrementally so that he was behind the Leader, he planted both hands on Nick’s shoulders as they approached the next turn. 

_Now!_

At the apex of the right angled corner, Minho pushed Nick in to the thick foliage and used the backwards force of the shove to sharpen his turn. In his periphery, he caught the glint of gold hair as Newt caught Nick.

“Minho!” Nick grunted out, and Minho ignored him in favor of focusing on not dying. The metallic groans were getting louder…he only had about a hundred feet to go…

_Almost there…_

“Fuck you!” Minho yelled in the general direction of the Griever before making a running leap at the next corner. He caught onto the pre-loosened piece of vine ten feet above the ground. As the momentum swung him in the air around the corner, Minho yanked hard, managing to scrabble up the gnarled makeshift rope a few inches.

When he hit the wall with an undignified thump, the arc of swinging on the vine had given him another ten feet of lift.

_Go, go, go, go!_

As Minho dug his fingers into the thick foliage in preparation to climb up _like a_ _shuckin’ terrified squirrel_ , the Griever let out an angry screech below.

The sound of metal crushing concrete rent the air as the Griever, which had overshot him, struggled to stop on its slimy ass and turn around.

Not bothering to see what it did next, Minho pulled himself up along the wall.

Adrenaline and fear drowned out all the noise. Minho barely noticed the soreness in his muscles, barely felt the sting of his nails ripping apart with the desperation of his climb.

Then, a familiar, sweet voice, roughened by lack of breath, broke through the haze.

“MINHO, BEHIND YOU!” Newt screamed.

He whipped his head around, but there was no time to do anything else. Minho was flung against the opposite concrete wall with a sweep of one of the Griever’s giant claw-like legs.

Burning, white pain exploded in his head before rapidly imploding into inky darkness.

* * *

 

Darkness smothered him like a blanket.

“Am I dead?” He asked the blanket, thinking only of how pissed off Newt was gonna be.

The darkness didn’t answer.

“Well, if this is death…it’s kinda boring.”

Minho waited few minutes—well, what he thought were minutes. Time felt slippery in this world. It left a slick, bitter taste in his mouth. It reminded him of his dreams…

“Seriously, nothing?” He tried to move his feet, but all his limbs felt sluggish, like body had stopped answering to his brain. “I can’t even tell if I’m in heaven or hell. Or purgatory? The underworld? Man, at least roll some credits.”

“Minho…”

Minho shut up, turning his head but unable to find the source of the voice, which seemed to be emanating from everywhere.

“Newt! What the hell is going on?”

“Shh,” Newt’s voice hushed, a warm breath against his ear, so faint Minho probably imagined it. “This isn’t part of the plan, but there’s no other way to tell you. Change is coming soon, and you’ve gotta to be ready for anything.”

“Not only did that not answer my question, but you somehow made me more shuckin’ confused.”

“Change is coming to the Glade,” Newt’s voice repeated. “Keep the boys safe…keep _me_ safe.”

“As much as I want to, I happen to be a teeny bit dead right now ’cause of that god-damned Griever,” Minho responded. It didn’t seem like Newt was going to offer any clarity on whatever klunk he was talking about.

_Whatever klunk I’m imagining…_

“Holy shit, Minho, you’re not dead.” Newt’s voice sounded exasperated. “You fell, like, twenty feet.”

“And you’re not Newt,” Minho said accusingly.

“Of course I’m not,” not-Newt responded. “This is in your head.”

“Then who are you! Because this sure as shit isn’t just me!” Minho tried to reach forward and get ahold of whoever had stolen Newt’s voice and was intruding in his mind. “Wait, do you have anything to do with my stupid dreams?”

Minho suddenly felt angrier than he could ever remember being. He suddenly knew it, clear as day. This voice, whoever the fuck was in his head, had been messing with him for the past few weeks—giving him those horrible, awful dreams.

_It wasn’t me. I’m not a monster._

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW THE _HELL_ YOU’VE PUT ME THROUGH? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!”

“You’ve been sent here for a reason, Minho.” Not-Newt sounded unfazed, almost apologetic, and Minho wanted to wring his throat. But the voice was getting fuzzy. “You need to wake up now.”

He wanted to keep screaming, keep struggling, but consciousness was tugging Minho out of the darkness. Since he couldn’t seem to be able to say anything else, he thought his next words as hard as he could.

_We’re not done here! I need answers!_

The other resident of his head didn’t respond.

It was time to wake up…

* * *

 

“Wake up!”

Minho woke up to a lancing pain in his head. “Wuh…”

He tried to sit up, but he was greeted by a blinding throb that seemed to seize every single one of his brain cells.

“Shh, chill out.” Firm hands pressed him back down so that his head was cushioned in someone’s lap.

“Newt?”

The Runner raised an eyebrow at the suspiciousness in Minho’s tone. “Expectin’ someone else?”

_I’m awake…I’m alive…_

“W-what happened?” Minho pushed up onto his elbows only to fall back down when his head gave a hellish throb. “Ugh…”

“Don’t move.” Newt stroked a cool hand across his forehead, and Minho reached up to grasp his wrist.

“Newt. Where’s Nick?”

Newt hesitated, brown eyes darting away from Minho’s pained squint. Before he turned away, though, Minho caught a glint of panic in Newt’s eyes. He reached up carefully to smooth the tips of his fingers down Newt’s pale, grime-covered cheek before gently tilting Newt’s chin back towards him.

Then, Minho saw his own hand.

_Shit._

The skin was streaked with blood and vine pulp. A sickening, jagged tattoo of red and green. Warm, dark liquid oozed from fresh gashes and ran down his arm like spilled ink. His nails were torn like concrete, and at least a couple were missing, replaced by half-dried blood and plant matter.

“The Griever caught up to you.” Newt said, watching Minho’s hand too. “It climbed the bloody wall and knocked you off. Nick…he got it to go after him.” _He saved you_ , Newt didn’t say, but it resonated in Minho’s mind as loud as if he did.

_What kind of hero lets others die for him?_

“That shucking klunkhead!” This time, Minho managed to ignore the pain in his head when he sat up.

“Minho!” Newt went to push him back down, but Minho ducked away and rolled out of his reach.

“Which way did he go?” Minho demanded, wiping away the tears of pain that surged automatically. His vision blacked out for a moment, and he braced his forearm against the wall in a desperate attempt to stay conscious.

“You’re in no bloody shape—”

“Newt, I don’t have time for this. He shouldn’t have been in the shucking Maze in the first place!” Minho, whose voice had escalated to shouting, took a shuddering breath. “It’s…it’s my fault. If anything happens to him…all my fault.”

Newt watched him with wide, sympathetic eyes for a moment before stumbling to his feet. Minho noticed that Newt moved gingerly. He had a slight limp.

“Alright. I’m coming with you…ow…just...slowly.”

“Your leg—”

“I’m fine, okay? Just sprained my ankle. If you’re gonna play bloody hero, you don’t have time to waste it on me.”

Minho shook his head, deciding to deal with the strange tone Newt used with those words later.

They got almost half a mile in the direction of Nick and the Griever when they heard screaming.

_What the hell…Gally?_

Minho took off in an unsteady sprint, almost colliding with a concrete wall when he didn’t slow down enough for the next sharp turn. When he rounded the next corner, he froze.

“What the hell?”

Gally writhed and rolled on the dirt and concrete ground as if tortured by invisible flames. His skin was pale like a ghost’s and thick blue veins bulged like roots on every inch of him.

“Where’s Nick?” Minho demanded, shoving Gally’s shoulders and holding him down on his back.

Gally paused his screaming, and his unfocused, bloodshot gaze met Minho’s. “It hurts, God, STOP HURTING ME!” A renewed wave of struggling sent Minho stumbling back.

_Useless!_

Minho flicked his gaze across the corridor, looking for traces of Nick.

A long inky stain on the gray concrete ground caught his attention immediately. A glance back at Gally told him it wasn’t the writhing builder: as tortured as Gally looked, he couldn’t have shed that much blood.

The stain was oblong, like a knife scar. Like a slash of ink on paper…like someone had dragged a giant, blood-coated paintbrush across the ground…dragged it towards…

He followed the dark, twisted trail of Nick’s bloodstains like they were breadcrumbs in a sick fairy tale.

_No…_

Minho, in too much pain to sprint, broke into a slow jog.

“Nick!” The leader lay propped low against the vine covered wall. Nick’s entire chest was soaked in blood that looked like black ink in the setting sun. The sickening familiarity of the image of gushing blood caused Minho’s throat to tighten. He didn’t notice that he’d bitten his tongue until he tasted blood in his mouth.

_Please, no…this is a dream._

He fell to his knees, moved Nick’s arm carefully out of the way, and pressed desperately on the wound.

“Hey, shank.” Nick’s bloodied hand left his chest and braced itself on Minho’s shoulder. To Minho’s horror, blood soaked through the blue fabric of his shirt immediately. “It was weird. It was like all it cared about was going after me. Like—” Nick coughed, then cleared his throat. “Like fate.”

“Just focus on breathing. We’re gonna get you to the Medjacks.”

“No, Minho,” Nick rasped. On the last syllable of his name, Nick’s rough voice devolved into a violent, gasping cough.

“Nick!”

Droplets of blood, dark and foreboding, splattered from Nick’s lips. “Th-that won’t be necessary. Listen.”

“Damn straight it is!” Minho kept putting pressure on the wound.

“Stubborn as always. You’re a leader, Minho, don’t forget that. Take care of the boys…they need you to be their hero.”

“They already have _you_ , god-damn it! Please…I don’t know what to do without you.”

“You have a choice, Minho.” Nick lifted his hand to Minho’s wrist and gripped it with surprising strength.

_“There’s always a choice.”_

_Doesn’t feel like it_ , Minho thought angrily.

“You have a choice,” Nick repeated. “Show them why you’re strong.” Minho wasn’t certain who “they” were—the Gladers, Alby, the Creators...his long lost family…Newt…

Just not Nick.

Minho felt the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, but he couldn’t let them fall.

“You know, I never expected to survive this long.” Nick’s hand slid from Minho’s wrist to rest on the concrete. “Let me go, Minho. I think I deserve some rest.”

_Let me go…_

Minho suspected that once the world starts slipping, it doesn't damn stop. The world suddenly felt black around the edges, like the end of a tragic movie where there hero dies and everything fades out. Surely there was nothing left to happen, no tale left to tell anymore. Just the darkness, swallowing him whole. What was the Glade without Nick?

“Damn it, Nick! I won’t! STAY ALIVE.” Minho bowed his head until his forehead touched Nick’s. “Please…”

Minho never got a response. He couldn’t hear Nick’s shallow breathing anymore.

A minute passed where the only sound in the Maze was Minho’s ragged, sobbing pants.

Then, he twisted to his feet.

“DAMN IT!” He punched the concrete above Nick’s head. Pain exploded in his knuckles, but it was nothing compared to the agony in his heart. “GOD DAMN IT.”

The wall didn't break apart like he wanted it to. A ludicrous fuckin' pity, since the very foundation of the Glade, the unhesitating buttress that was Nick, had ceased to exist before his very eyes.

Minho let out a strangled shout and caught himself against the Maze wall when his legs threatened to collapse.

“Minho...” He felt a touch, hesitant yet firm, on his shoulder.

When Minho didn’t respond, another hand gripped his other shoulder. Firm fingers pressed into the muscle, kneading the tension out very slowly.

Those hands moved down his arms, carefully skirting the wounds on Minho’s hands before moving back up to cross over his chest. The other boy’s chin rested on Minho’s shoulder.

Newt didn’t speak any words because he knew Minho didn’t need them.

_Not now….not yet._

Instead, they stood together for a length of time Minho didn’t bother to measure, Newt warm against Minho’s back, arms firm around him while Minho recomposed himself. Compartmentalized the pain so they could move on.

“How’s your leg?” Minho finally broke the silence . Newt pulled away and started kneading Minho’s shoulders again.

“It’s just a sprain. We need to get out before the Doors close.” Newt said, eyes on the orange horizon. “Can you walk? We need to carry Gally back. The Griever did something…weird to him. He needs medical attention.”

“It should’ve been me.”

Newt gave him an odd look and stopped massaging his shoulder. He pulled away and refused eye contact, reminding Minho of a skittish deer. “Don’t talk like that.”

Minho shook his head, but didn’t press the point. They had more urgent klunk to deal with.

“Can you handle Gally yourself? I’ll carry Nick.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Newt combed his fingers through his golden hair, but the strands refused to stay out of his eyes.

“He deserves more than this.” And the boys deserved closure.

Newt held his gaze for a moment, and an understanding passed between them.

"Yeah, I got Gally."

With a pained glance at the body of the Leader, Newt turned away and limped towards the end of the corridor, where Minho could still hear Gally's screams.

It took a few tries for Minho to heft Nick’s body up into his exhausted arms. Everything hurt, but it didn’t matter. The pain meant he was alive…

_Nick is dead._

The words rang like a death knell in his throbbing head. Nick’s blood, still warm, stained his shirt like ink.

_“Change is coming to the Glade.”_


End file.
